With Brothers Like These
by Catching Tomorrow
Summary: The life and times of the four constituent countries living in the small, rainswept and awesome house known as United Kingdom.
1. A Full British Breakfast

**I was feeling soppy the other day, so I was looking through all the family-based fanfictions. I found them for the German-speaking nations, for East Asia, for North America, but none for the British Isles. And that made me sad, because that's where I'm from and, from what little we know of these characters (besides England), they have so much potential. And, knowing the relationships the constituent countries of the UK have with each other, the thought of cooping them all up in the same house gave me a sadistic sort of glee. The result of that glee - and a little bit of character-building - is this, a series of one-shots about the United Kingdom.**

**If Hetalia was mine, these guys would have much more love. The UK is also not mine, just in case anyone was wondering.**

**To clear up any confusion for people unfamiliar with the UK, EmeraldIsle is the Republic of Ireland, who lives on her own, and SoBritishRightNow is Northern Ireland, who lives with the rest of the United Kingdom.**

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><p><em>EmeraldIsle says:<em>

_What are you doing?_

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_Not much. The guys are making breakfast and I'm talking to you._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_You're letting them cook for you?_

"Scotland, no!"

Northern Ireland looked up from his laptop to see England and Scotland fighting over a strange lump of beige that he quickly identified as haggis. He pulled a face; only Scotland understood the appeal of that kind of food and he had a feeling that only Scotland ever would.

"I told you we weren't having any more of that in the house! It's digusting!"

"It's not disgustin', it's delicious! I have it fer breakfast all the time!"

"It is a sheep's heart, liver and lungs cooked in its own stomach! Only you would find that delicious!"

"It's _traditional_!" Scotland gave an extra-hard tug and the haggis ripped in half, spilling a kind of brown mush all over the floor. Wales pressed his back to the kitchen counter and stared at it in horror, most likely trying not to imagine the poor sheep that it used to be.

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_They're not that bad._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_They are and you know it. I don't know how I survived all those years in that house without dying from food poisoning._

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_Wales's cooking isn't too bad._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_If you like leeks._

"What are yer doin', Wales?"

Ireland sighed and peered over the top of his laptop. Scotland, having cleared up the ruined haggis, was now trying to get a look at what Wales was up to.

"N-nothing..." said the smaller nation, trying to hide a suspicious-looking green vegetable behind his back.

"Leeks!" England had left the bacon and eggs to cook and snuck up beside Wales, grabbing the leek from his hand before he could protest. "What have you _done_?"

"It tastes better this way!" he wailed as Scotland grabbed the bowl he had been working on.

"Yer put leeks in the baked beans. Why would yer _do _that?"

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_I hate leeks._

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_They're all right in some things._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_Speak for yourself. But if it's not the cooking, it's the arguing. It seems like all they do is shout at each other. I used to get the worst headaches when I lived with you guys._

"What the bloody _hell _is _that_?" England was rounding on Scotland with a dangerous look on his face.

"It's French toast, innit?" he said casually, dipping another piece of bread into an eggy mixture.

"This is an _English _breakfast, Scotland! Why are you making _his _food?"

"What dae yer mean, _his_? What's wrong with France?"

"We are not having that cheese-eating surrender monkey's food in our meal. Throw it away right this instant!"

"No. I like France and I like French toast, and yer cannae tell me what ter do!"

"Can we keep it, please?" asked Wales, who had gotten rid of the rest of his leek (Ireland had a strange suspicion he had eaten it raw) and was now putting the baked beans in the microwave. "I like French toast."

"Oh, take his side, why don't you?"

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_They do argue a lot._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_And England always wins, because if anyone upsets him then he just takes away even more of their independence. I don't know why you like him so much, North! He lords it over everyone like he's the bees' bloody knees._

"Why dae ye get ter decide what we eat?" asked Scotland, still defiantly dipping bread into the bowl of egg. "We're makin' this tergether, so we should all get a say in what goes inter it!"

"Because we're making an _English _breakfast," said England, as though that was that. "Is anyone else here England? No? I didn't think so. So, as the only England in the room, I think I should be the ruling authority on what we put into our _English _breakfast."

"It's just a bit of extra egg," said Wales. "He did get rid of his haggis when you asked..."

"I didnae _want _ter! He broke it!"

"But he wanted it and it didn't end up going in. Isn't it only fair that he gets his toast?"

England crossed his arms and scowled at them. "If you're all so fond of French breakfasts then you can bloody well eat at France's house. I was under the impression that we were the United Kingdom, but obviously I was wrong."

"It's just toast!" shouted Scotland. "I'm nae spittin' on yer bloody flag or anythin'!"

"It's the principle of the thing!"

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_He's not all bad. He's just... opinionated._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_And they can't do anything right! I don't know what it is, but everything those guys touch turns to cac. They're just blessed with suck._

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_That's not fair._

Wales screamed, making Ireland jump violently and almost fall out of his chair. He hated loud noises. But before he could shout at Wales to be quiet, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the tongue of flame rising out of Scotland's frying pan.

"SCOTLAND!" England rushed over and tried to grab the pan off him.

"Keep the heid, it's under control!" yelled Scotland, trying to pull it back and accidentally setting fire to a kitchen towel. Wales screamed again and raced to fill a glass of water. "I dinnae ken what yer so worried aboot!"

"I _told _you not to put so much oil in it! Didn't I tell him, Wales?"

"You did tell him."

"I only put a bit in! It's the bloody cooker's fault!" Scotland was beating the towel against the counter, trying and failing to put the fire out. Wales rushed over with his glass, spilling half the water because his hands were shaking so much, and upended it over the towel. The fire sputtered and weakened but didn't go out until Scotland threw it on the floor and jumped on it.

England, meanwhile, had hurled the flaming pan into the sink with an almighty crash - Ireland winced - and turned the tap on full blast. The water submerged the sausages completely but did manage to put out the fire.

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_Well if you like them so much then why don't you just marry them?_

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_They're my brothers. That would be weird._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_Come on, let's be serious here. You can't honestly enjoy living with them. They're loud and obnoxious, they never shut up and not one of them can make a decent meal. England's a stuck-up control freak and no-one can understand a word Scotland says. Wales is all right, but he's way too reliant on England. And I've hated leeks ever since he made me that birthday cake back when I still lived with you guys. Try and tell me a single word of that isn't true._

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_...Maybe it's a little bit true._

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_So come and live with me! You can stay friends with your precious England if you like. It'll be just like old times. I really miss you, North. We can hang out and speak Gaelic and never have to worry about Great Britain again._

"Hey," said Scotland, chewing slowly on a mouthful of baked beans and leek. "This dinnae taste too bad."

"I told you," said Wales, trying to look sulky but doing a bad job of hiding his smugness.

"Let me try some." England stuck a spoon in the baked beans and put it tentatively into his mouth. "That's... not as horrible as I thought it would be."

"_Thanks_," said Wales, in a rare display of sarcasm.

"Since yer bein' so nice..." started Scotland, but England interrupted him.

"Fine, we can have your bloody French toast."

Scotland punched the air in triumph and went to scoop the eggy bread out of the pan.

"And these sausages are burnt to hell..." said England, lifting a blackened stump out of the pool of water filling the sink.

"Innae that what sausages are meant ter be like?" asked Scotland. "A sausage innae a sausage unless it's black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat."

"You know, you're exactly right," said England, looking at him as though seeing him in a new light. "You know, I think that's the first time we've ever agreed on anything."

"Yeah, well, dunnae git used ter it."

"I don't expect I'll have a chance to." Was it just him, or was there a smile on England's face as he turned to fish the rest of the sausages out of the sink?

It didn't take long for them to put Wales's baked beans and leek, Scotland's sausages and French toast and England's bacon, egg and hash browns onto four plates on the countertop, where they steamed gently and let off enticing smells. Even Ireland had to admit that they looked delicious, except maybe for the blackened sausages. Wales poured four glasses of orange juice and they all carried them through to the dining room where the table was set and ready.

"Ireland!" called England, poking his head through the door. "Breakfast."

"Coming!"

_EmeraldIsle says:_

_North? You there?_

_SoBritishRightNow says:_

_Yeah. Sorry sis, I think I'm staying here for now. Gotta go, breakfast's ready._

_SoBritishRightNow has logged off._

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><p><strong>Please leave a review if you liked it, disliked it, have something to say or just feel like exercising your fingers. Winning the lottery is nothing compared to logging on and seeing an extra review ^_^<strong>


	2. World Meeting

**Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter! It really made my day to get so many great responses ^_^**

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><p>England finished doing up his tie and checked his appearance in the mirror. Perfect. He was getting ready to go to the world meeting that had been scheduled for today and he didn't want to look anything less than impeccable. Despite what people liked to think, appearance did matter. Who wanted to form a trade alliance with a scruffy-looking idiot? He had a reputation to maintain, after all.<p>

"Whatcha doin'?"

He spun around to see Scotland lounging against the doorframe, arms folded. "I'm getting ready to leave. The meeting starts in an hour and I'd like to get there early."

"Can I come?"

"Of course you can't. I represent the UK in things like this, remember? You don't need to bother yourself with it."

"I'm nae botherin' meself, I just want ter come! I've never been tae one of these world meetin's before and they soond interestin'."

"Well they aren't." England picked up his briefcase and pushed past Scotland into the corridor. "They're just a bunch of countries arguing about pointless things and never actually accomplishing anything."

"Soonds like fun!" Scotland was hurrying along behind him as he picked up his pace. "I willnae be a bother, I just want ter 'ave a look."

"You're staying right here," said England, with an air of finality that shot right over the Scot's head.

"Staying right where?" Wales emerged from his bedroom door, still dressed in his sheep-print pyjamas, just in time to follow the older nations into the living area.

"In this hotel room. You're lucky I let you come to Berlin with me. Don't push that luck, now."

"Luck?" Now it was Northern Ireland's turn to appear, this time from the bathroom.

"We werenae talkin' aboot you," said Scotland, still closely shadowing England. "This gowk crabbit willnae let us come ter the world meetin' with 'im."

"A world meeting? Can I come?"

"If he gets to come then so do I!'

"We willnae be any trouble!"

"Please, England," said Wales, looking up at him with pleading eyes. He was the smallest of the four and quite cute when he wanted to be, and he'd figured out how to use this to his advantage. His eyes swelled to twice their normal size and shimmered gently, suggesting tears forming just out of sight.

England stared down at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and marched to the front door. "No. None of you are coming. You'll get bored and you know what happens when you get bored." Wales seemed to deflate somewhat and, shoulders slumped, disappeared off into his room.

Scotland, however, was not one to give up. "I willnae get bored! I need the experience fer when I move oot of this hoose!"

"You know you'll never actually do that, Scotland. You'd have to cook for yourself and wash your own clothes and do all your own accounts."

"I could do that!" He folded his arms and glowered at his younger brother. "Yer just havenae given me the chance ter prove it!"

"I could help you!" pleaded Ireland. "I could take your calls and do your paperwork! I could say hi to South again!"

England scowled at him. The Republic of Ireland always took her seat as far away from him as physically possible and avoided all eye contact when she wasn't glaring at him and snapping pencils in a way that more than implied she was imagining they were his neck. "She won't even talk to you if you're near me."

"Oh," Ireland looked a little disappointed, then perked up again. "I don't mind! I still want to come!"

"Come on, England," said Scotland, trying to imitate Wales's cute face and failing miserably. "Let us come. We willnae get up ter any mischief."

"I wish I could believe that." He opened the hotel room door and set off down the corridor to the lifts.

"I'm ready!" Wales bounced back out of his bedroom and raced out after them, now fully dressed in a musty-smelling tweed suit and wellies. "Wait for me!" He caught up just in time to slip through the lift door before it closed.

"What the bloody hell is _that_?" England stared at him in horror as the floor numbers slowly decreased.

"It's my formalwear! I haven't worn it for a few decades but it still fits!" Wales was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a big grin splitting his face. "Can I come now? Please?"

"No!" The door pinged and slid open. England strode out into the lobby with his three brothers still sticking to him like glue. "Go away!"

"Why not? Just give us a chance! We'll won't be any trouble, I swear!"

"We're countries too! I dinnae ken what the big deal is!"

"Yeah, let us come!"

"And me!"

"You arenae leavin' me behind!"

"NO!" England's voice cut through the cacophony of pleading cries, silencing the brothers completely. "NO! YOU CAN'T COME! NONE OF YOU HAVE ENOUGH INDEPENDENCE TO REPRESENT YOURSELVES ON THE WORLD STAGE AND NONE OF YOU HAVE THE PATIENCE TO SIT THROUGH AN ENTIRE MEETING WITHOUT CAUSING SOME KIND OF NATIONAL EMERGENCY, SO STOP DELUDING YOURSELVES AND GO BACK TO THE ROOM BECAUSE I AM NOT LETTING YOU COME WITH ME!"

There was a moment of quiet. England glowered around at them, his temper still at boiling point, and they stared back with wide eyes and shocked faces. The entire lobby seemed to fall quiet as all everyone turned to look at them. The silence stretched and expanded, rolled and crested, then...

_BEEP BEEP!_

The car had arrived.

"YAY!" shouted Scotland, Wales and Ireland in unison and surged forwards, knocking England sideways as they shot through the revolving door, pushing each other out of the way in their eagerness to get outside. They piled into the back of the taxi like sardines as the slightly bemused driver shut the door behind them.

England stomped through the doors after them in the sort of mood that made good men into murderers. He thought about shouting at them all to get out and go upstairs before he was forced to put a curse on them, but they were better at magic than he was anyway. Besides, he knew it wouldn't work and they probably wouldn't hear him anyway, thanks to the chant of "WE'RE GOING TO THE MEETING, WE'RE GOING TO THE MEETING!" that had erupted from the back seat of the taxi.

Sighing, England climbed in and buckled himself into the passenger seat. Maybe it wouldn't hurt that much to give them a chance. They were nations, after all - small nations that all sat under the banner of the United Kingdom, but nations all the same. If the worst came to the worst, at least they would make the meeting a little more interesting.

He just did _not _need Scotland to meet Prussia.


	3. Dinnae Let the Bedbugs Bite

England had not been downstairs in a long time. Shortly after America's banks had collapsed some weeks ago, he had disappeared into the dark recesses of his office and hadn't left since. The rest of them had learnt a long time ago that he didn't appreciate being interrupted while he was working and they had the sense to leave him alone. Wales took it upon himself to bring him meals three times a day, so it was only Wales that ever saw him any more.

"You know, I'm a bit worried about him," he'd said one day, when the three brothers were gathered around the telly. The news - the only programme they all agreed on watching - was telling them all grimly about the economic recession. The pound was at its lowest value since the Great Depression and unemployment was rising sharply nationwide. "He doesn't look very well. I think he's overworking himself."

"Ach, serves 'im right fer takin' on most o' the UK's economy," said Scotland, leaning back on the couch.

"He's doing it for our benefit," said Northern Ireland. He was staring at the telly like a hypnotist's pocketwatch.

"He's doin' it 'cause he's a bloody control freak."

Wales sighed. "I just worry about him sometimes, that's all."

"Don't upset yourself," said Ireland. "He can take care of himself. This recession'll be over soon and he'll be back to normal."

"I cannae _wait_," said Scotland, the dripping sarcasm practically making a puddle on the carpet.

Despite his laid-back attitude towards it all, the year hadn't been particularly kind to Scotland either. He had much more paperwork to do and many more problems to sort out than usual, to the point where his free time was limited. But he had never been one to let problems weigh him down - or even to acknowledge problems at all if they didn't suit him - so he always found time to come downstairs and relax in the afternoon. It certainly would never have even occurred to him to miss a meal. Wales and Ireland were busier than usual as well, but he still saw them around the house and they still had their meals and telly nights as usual. But the weeks began to roll by and he still didn't once see England's face.

_Pure dead brilliant_, he thought, stretching out on the couch and flipping the channel to a rerun of _Braveheart_, his favourite film. _I dinnae have to put up with that stuck-up crabbit._

That was, until the remote broke.

Scotland frowned at it and stabbed at the 'volume up' button again. It was one of his favourite scenes and he couldn't hear a thing! How was he supposed to reminisce about the sacking of York without the proper soundtrack? He prised the back off the remote and flipped the batteries around, just in case - still nothing.

"I'll gie yer a skelpit lug, yer wee scunner," he muttered, hauling himself up off the couch. England was the one who dealt with the electronics around the house - Scotland had a feeling he didn't know much more about them than the other three, but he was the one that most often succeeded in intimidating their various machines into doing his bidding. And so, still insulting the remote under his breath, he climbed the stairs and dragged himself down the corridor to England's office.

The first thing he noticed as he pushed the door open was just how dark the room was. How was anyone supposed to work in that kind of light? The only source of illumination in the gloom was a small lamp on the desk, casting dim shadows across the mountains of paperwork. And there were _mountains_ - England's desk, usually at least passably neat, was overflowing. His in-tray was piled high, his rubbish bin was spilling scrunched-up paper all over the floor and the polished oak of his desk was invisible under a carpet of forms, reports, memos and unopened envelopes. Even Scotland, whose desk looked like the abominable snowman on the best of days, was surprised.

"England," he said, waving the remote. "This bloody thing willnae work and I dinnae ken how ter-"

"Go away, Scotland. I'm busy."

But Scotland was too busy staring open-mouthed at his younger brother to go away. England had turned around in his chair to face him and he looked, quite simply, like death warmed up. His hair was sticking out at odd angles where he'd run his fingers through it and his clothes looked like they hadn't been changed in days. His skin was pale - paler than usual - but his eyes were what shocked Scotland the most. They were dull, not the usual bright green that ran in the family, and half-closed like they wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Shadows too extensive to have been entirely caused by the lamplight hollowed out his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes made it look like he'd been punched twice in the face.

"Yer pure done in, arenae yer?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, turning his chair back around and picking up his pen. "I can handle this. I don't need your help."

"Yer gunnae make a mistake if yer this knackered."

"I'll make a mistake if you don't stop bothering me."

Scotland sighed. England was always so grumpy when he was tired. Actually, he was grumpy most of the time, but tiredness definitely enhanced that part of his personality. He didn't want someone that grumpy managing the UK's economy. Before he knew what he was doing, Scotland had strode across the room and snatched England's pen right out of his hand. Ignoring his cries of protest, he grabbed his little brother around the waist and lifted him up onto his shoulder in a fireman's hold.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled, incensed. He writhed and squirmed in outrage, beating his fists against Scotland's back, but Scotland kept his grip easily. "Put me down right this instant or I'll... I'll invade! I swear I will!"

Scotland ignored him. It was easy; he had plenty of practise at it. As he walked down the corridor, England's kicking and screaming became slower and quieter. He went from shouting threats of violence and curses of both the verbal and magical kinds, sometimes at the same time, to mumbling vaguely, accompanied by the occasional jerk of the leg or weak slap.

"Put me... I need to... recession... I..."

"Yeah, yeah," Scotland reached England's bedroom. He kicked open the door, crossed the room and dropped the exhaused nation onto his bed. He pulled the duvet up before England could do anything stupid like getting back up again, effectively trapping him in there.

"Now yer get some sleep, yer hear? If I see yer back in yer office before tomorrow mornin' I'll make yer wish yer'd never woken up."

"Scotland..." England's eyes were closed now. His eyelids fluttered occasionally, like they wanted to open but didn't have the energy.

"And when yer do, let us dae some o' the work. We're nae complete dunderheids, yer ken."

"Tha... thank..."

And then he was asleep.

Scotland turned off the lights and shook his head. It took a global recession and weeks of twenty-four-hour workdays to get even half a gesture of appreciation out of him? Sometimes he didn't know why he bothered.

"Dinnae let the bedbugs bite." He stepped out of the room and shut the door gently behind him. Maybe it wouldn't kill him to relive his favourite memories quietly.

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><p><strong>The more you review the more I post! ...Nah, I'll post anyway, but reviews give me inspiration to do it more often! ^_^<strong>


	4. Telly Night

**To everyone who's reviewed so far, thank you! You've all been so nice, it's inspired me to write even more. I'm really starting to love these guys ^_^**

**A note for the chapter: 'Cymru' is pronounced 'KOOM-ree." It's Welsh for Wales.**

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><p>"I," announced England, collapsing onto the couch, "am knackered. Give us the remote, Scotland."<p>

"No!" Scotland hugged the remote tightly to his chest. "_Braveheart_ is on in a minute!"

England groaned. "I hate that film. Do you ever watch anything else?"

"Ye only hate it 'cause ye're the bad guy. And I dae watch other things!"

"Fine, okay, you watch other things. Now can I have the remote? _Top Gear_'s about to start."

"I'd actually kind of like to watch _Doctor Who_," said Wales quietly.

"I want to watch _The Panel_," said Northern Ireland, folding his arms.

"Well we're watchin' _Braveheart_, so ye can make dae," said Scotland.

"You like _Top Gear_! It has cars going fast in it!"

"I like _Braveheart _more."

Wales sighed. Centuries of living in this house had given him an acute argument detector, and right now it was going crazy. Someone was going to have to defuse this situation or all hell was going to break loose and, since he seemed to be the only sane nation here, it was going to have to be him. "Can't we just record _Top Gear_?" he pleaded. "You can watch it later."

"I don't want to watch it later. I want to watch it now."

It was at that point that Ireland, having snuck up behind Scotland while he was distracted with defending his channel-choosing rights, grabbed the remote and made a break for it. With an almighty roar, Scotland was on his feet and running after him. England followed and Wales, realising that all hope of peace and sanity was lost, was hot on his heels.

Ireland hurtled down the hallway with the remote clutched tightly to his chest, pursued closely by a particularly bloodthirsty Scotland. He reached the staircase and turned the sharp corner onto the stairs. When Scotland followed, he vaulted the banister, intending to race back to the living room... But, unfortunately for him, he landed right on top of England.

England recovered first and grabbed the remote right out of his hands with a cry of triumph. He set off running towards the kitchen, but Wales, caught up in the heat of battle, caught his legs in a flying tackle. England hit the ground and dropped the remote; Wales plucked it from the carpet and tore down the corridor towards the kitchen. He'd barely made it past the counter when something hard and round bounced off the side of his head. He spun around to see Scotland standing by the fruit bowl, arms full of apples. He ducked instinctively just as the small, dangerously hard fruit began to sail over his head, but all that did was let Ireland catch him off balance. Easily taking Wales to the ground, Ireland snatched the remote away and spun to assess his options for escaping. England was blocking the doorway to the corridor, Scotland was closing in and it wouldn't be long before Wales managed to pick himself back up. Ireland spun on his heel and shot towards the back door.

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about the apples. His foot landed on one and he slipped over, hitting the ground with a jarring thump. He didn't have time to scramble to his feet before the remote was pulled from his hand by a whooping Scotland. He barely looked up in time to see the older nation disappear through the door to the corridor and slam it behind him.

"It's locked!" shouted Wales, wrestling with the handle.

"Then we'll just have to knock it down," said England grimly.

Ireland didn't have a chance to brace himself before the two of them hit the door like a steamroller, knocking it off its hinges with a distressingly loud noise. Ireland flinched, but they were gone before he could shout after them. Hands still shaking slightly, he climbed to his feet, stepped over the remains of the door and raced off after them.

Bursting into the living room, they saw a telltale mop of red hair sticking out from behind the couch. With battle cries that would've made the Celts turn tail and flee, the three nations charged the couch and hit it with a force that made the shelf ornaments wobble dangerously. Somewhere in the pandemonium, the couch managed to overbalance and topple backwards. In the most undignified manner possible, England scrambled over the top of the couch and, after a fierce wrestling match, managed to wrest the remote from Scotland. With a cry of triumph, he hurled himself out from behind the barrier that had once resembled a perfectly nice piece of furniture and hurtled back across the room.

He didn't know where he was going, but the coffee table certainly hadn't been the plan. The coffee table was, however, where he ended up when Ireland grabbed the rug and tugged it hard - England's feet shot out from under him and he caught some impressive air before landing on the wooden surface. He slid across, knocking all of their drinks onto the carpet, and managed to overturn the table as he dropped off the other side and landed in a crumpled heap. But all the brothers cared about was the remote as it left his hand and flew gracefully through the (closed) window.

Leaving England lying dazed next to the coffee table, Scotland, Ireland and Wales fought their way out of the room and raced for the back door. It was a cold winter's night and the rain was pouring down by the bucketful but the dark, wet and freezing cold barely registered with them as they ran for the remote lying in the grass. Scotland got there first; he scooped it up and held it above his head like a trophy before Wales slammed into him and attached himself to his back. Wales's forced piggy-back wasn't enough to bring him down, but it provided an opening for Ireland to go for his legs and bring them all crashing to the muddy grass. Over and over they rolled, squishing flowerbeds and splashing through puddles, desperately fighting for the remote. Ireland had it, then Wales, then Ireland again, then Scotland...

They were unaware of anything outside their three-way wrestling match before the remote was plucked almost casually from the fray by England, who had recovered from his mild concussion and come back to join the fight. He grinned at them before turning tail and running back across the garden towards the house, pursued by the outraged shouts of his brothers. The other three scrambled to their feet and followed - they burst back through the door and hurtled along the corridor, barely noticing the mud, leaves and dirty rainwater they were trekking through the house.

England was going to make it. He was going to get through the door to the living room and lock it and they weren't going to catch him in time. He was going to win and he was going to watch _Top Gear _while they sat in the corridor and commiserated. They all noticed this at the same time, but it was Wales who acted first. He pulled his shoe from his foot in mid-stride and hurled it as hard as he could. It soared across the corridor and hit the blond nation right on the back of the head. He went down like a sack of potatoes and Wales, shocked by his own brilliant aim, grabbed the remote. Without wasting a nanosecond, he hurled himself through the living room door, locked it behind him and leant against the wood as blows rained down on it from outside.

He'd won. He was the winner. He had done it! For once in his life, he had defeated his brothers fair and square! Wales felt pride rise in his chest and a huge grin broke out across his face as he skirted the remains of the coffee table, stepped over the spilt drinks, broken mugs and shards of glass and salvaged a cushion to sit on from what used to be their couch. As the noise from the corridor began to die down, he pointed the remote at the telly and triumphantly changed the channel to BBC Cymru.

_Doctor Who_ was over.

Wales stared at the screen in disbelief. Over? He'd missed it! All that effort and he'd missed it!

Shoulders slumped, he dragged himself over to the door, turned the lock and opened it to see Scotland and Ireland reviving a half-conscious England. "It's over," he said, voice devoid of any emotion.

There were, of course, shouts of outrage and groans of disappointment. Ireland crossed his arms and glowered at them all in cold fury, Scotland complained loudly about not being able to watch a factually inaccurate but awesome recount of his own history for the five hundredth time and England didn't do anything much because he still wasn't fully awake. For once in his life, Wales couldn't muster much sympathy for any of them. Making him miss _Doctor Who _was crossing a line, after all.

It wasn't long before he mustered the energy to suggest that they all just go to bed. Ireland stomped up the stairs without saying a word and Scotland followed, carrying England over his shoulder. Wales was last, traipsing up the staircase without any enthusiasm to speak of.

They'd be alright, of course. Someone - most likely Ireland - would wake up early tomorrow and clean up the mess. Everyone would eat breakfast together and all would be forgotten, never to be mentioned again. He would catch _Doctor Who _on a rerun and England would have a headache but hopefully no long-term brain damage. All would be well.

He just wished this didn't have to happen _every _night.


	5. Invisible Friends

It had been a long day. A long, hard, exhausting day. England had returned home from the world meeting with a sense of hopelessness hanging over him like a raincloud. Why did he even bother to attend those things? They were pointless. As soon as it looked like they might accomplish something - anything - they got bogged down in the quagmire of bureaucracy and paperwork and all progress was lost. He dragged himself into the house and, noting happily that none of his brothers seemed to be around, flopped down into his favourite armchair.

And that was when everything took a turn for the better, as it always did when his friends showed up. Uni, Captain Hook, Tinkerbell and the Flying Mint Bunny seemed to materialise out of nowhere, springing up from behind the couch and running over to brighten his day. They chatted, they laughed, they were truly happy...

Until England looked up from a conversation on the merits of peppermint versus spearmint with the Flying Mint Bunny to see Scotland standing in the doorway.

"What in God's name ae ye _doin_?"

His friends, always easily startled by the appearance of outsiders, disappeared. England stared his brother in the eyes. He would've made some kind of excuse on any other day, but Scotland had just interrupted his alone time with his friends. It was the only relaxation he would have all day and he had ruined it.

"I was talking to my friends," he said, defiantly.

"Pull the other one. Ye dinnae 'ave any friends."

"I do so have friends! They were right there before you scared them off!"

"I didnae see any 'friends'."

"That's because they're _invisible_," sighed England.

Scotland raised a thick eyebrow. "Ye mean the only people ye can get ter hang oot with ye are yer own imaginary friends?"

"They're not imaginary! And at least they _want_ to hang out with me!" England folded his arms and glared at them. "No-one ever wants to hang out with you guys, visible or invisible!"

"That's nae true," said Scotland. "I see me best friend every day!"

"Oh really? Who is it? Your poetry books?"

"FER THE LAST TIME, I DINNAE READ POETRY!"

"Robert Burns begs to differ. But who is this friend of yours? I've never heard of them before."

"Of course ye have. It's the Loch Ness Monster, innae it?"

"What?" England spluttered. He tried hard not to laugh for politeness's sake, then remembered it was only Scotland and laughed anyway. "The Loch Ness Monster is your best friend?"

"Aye! And she's better company than ye any day!"

"But she's a sea monster! She lives in Loch Ness! And besides, I've never seen her."

Scotland sighed, as though explaining something very simple to someone very thick. "Just because you cannae _see _her dunnae mean she isnae _real_, England. She's more real than yer Flyin' Mint Bunny, anyway."

"Don't bring the Flying Mint Bunny into this, Scotland. The difference is that everyone knows that Nessie is a figment of your disturbed imagination. Seriously, who else dreams up a scaled reptile as their best friend?"

Wales, who had been walking past the door, stopped and backed up. "Are you guys talking about Merfyn?"

They stared at him. "Who's Merfyn?"

"He's my best friend."

England sighed and rubbed his temples. "I don't believe I am acquainted with anyone by the name of Merfyn, Wales."

"Oh, you wouldn't be," said the smaller nation cheerily, sitting down on the couch next to them. "He's invisible."

Oh, brilliant. Now two of his siblings were clinically insane. Why couldn't he have had a nice normal brother, like America had in... in... that guy with the bear. Whoever he was. "Let me guess, Merfyn's some kind of aquatic plesiosaurus?"

"Nope," said Wales. "He's a dragon. About this tall-" he held up a hand about four feet from the ground, "-and bright red. If you want a picture, he's on my flag."

England wasn't even surprised any more. "You put your imaginary friend on your flag."

"He's not imaginary! He's real!"

"Of course he is." _I need a cup of tea._

"No, he really is! Just because you can't _see _him, England!"

"Ye gods, ye're booth off yer heids," said Scotland, disbelief written plainly across his face.

"Am not!" protested Wales. "Merfyn's been my friend for centuries!"

"And at least my friends aren't nonexistent sea monsters!"

"Ireland has one too!" said Wales triumphantly, as though proving that insanity ran in his family was his trump card. "IRELAND!"

A moment later, Ireland poked his head through the door. "What?"

"Tell them about Seamus!"

Ireland looked around at them all in mild confusion. "You don't know about him?"

"About who." England could not even muster the energy to turn the statement into a question. At least his invisible friends made _sense_.

"He's my leprechaun. He keeps me company sometimes when I'm lonely. Why?"

"Because I'm trying to get enough evidence to admit you all to a mental hospital," sighed England.

"Noo wait just one second! Who says Nessie isnae real?"

"And Merfyn! He's on my flag and everything! Just because you aren't open-minded enough to see him!"

"You have imaginary friends too, England!" said Ireland. "And so does Sou- I mean it's common in my area for people to believe in fairies."

"The difference," he said, "is that my friends actually exist."

"I'm nae too sure aboot that one, laddie," said Scotland. "I've seen ye playin' wit them, and they didnae look real to me."

"That's because they're _invisible_."

"So's Nessie!"

"And Merfyn!"

"And Seamus!"

"Fine!" England threw his hands up in surrender. "Fine, you can have your sea monsters and your dragons and your leprechauns. They're real. Whatever. But I'm still booking you all in to see a therapist." Sighing in defeat, he got up and headed towards the door.

Scotland followed close on his heels, still outraged. "Well then I'm confiscatin' yer Peter Pan book! It's turnin' ye into a dighted crabbit, ye ken!"

"You lay one finger on my book and I'll-"

"I," said Wales loudly, interrupting them, "am going to go and play with Merfyn. Because I don't care what you say, he's a better friend than _you_ guys."

"Me too," said Ireland. "At least Seamus knows he's real, and he's not going to be happy when I tell him you've been doubting his existence."

And then they were gone, stomping off down the hallway with Scotland and England still arguing over the fate of the beloved, dog-eared old children's book.

"Don't be upset, Seamus," said Merfyn, coming out from where he'd been napping behind the couch and stretching himself out in front of the telly. "I'm sure they don't mean to be rude."

"Ach, I know," said the leprechaun. He was sitting on Merfyn's back, lounging in the comfortable spot where his wing met his back. "They aren't the first people who haven't believed in us."

"At least you have the good fortune and recognition to have your visage emblazoned across the banner of your nation," said Nessie, pacing casually back and forth across the rug. "One would think that I, as a national symbol, not to mention renowned tourist attraction, would at least-"

"Look on the bright side," squeaked the Flying Mint Bunny, doing loop-the-loops in the air. "People come from all round the world to see you!"

"I just hope Scotland doesn't destroy our book," said Captain Hook. He looked vaguely worried. Tinkerbell patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"It's okay. England would never let that happen."

"Oh, Wales is calling me," said Merfyn, standing up quickly. "See you later, guys!" And, with a chorus of goodbyes from the other imagina- I mean _invisible _friends, he disappeared in a puff of smoke, teleporting to wherever his master beckoned him from.

Because after all, whoever said that being invisible means that you can't be real?

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! I really enjoyed writing this one, actually. Merfyn's not nearly as scary as he looks on Wales's flag.<strong>

**Anyway, commence shameless begging for reviews. If you liked this story, please review! They're really inspiring and I love them.**


	6. Stormclouds Over Ireland

**And now for something completely different. Really quite different. I'm not sure if it's too early for this much backstory or not, but I thought you all deserved to know what the deal is with South and why Ireland's so jumpy all the time. This chapter was probably the hardest to write, but it was rewarding as well. I'm pretty pleased with it. I don't write serious things very often, so I'd love to hear how you think I did. But without further ado, here it is.**

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><p>"<em>Hey North! Look what I found!"<em>

_Ireland raised his head; his twin sister was standing on the other side of the meadow with her hand held triumphantly in the air. "What? Go on, give us a look!" He ran over to her, his green wellies splashing through puddles and trampling daisies as he crashed through the long grass._

_She opened her small, muddy hand slowly, carefully. Nestled in her palm was a tiny four-leaf clover. "I get to be lucky now, North," she said, her freckled face breaking out into a wide smile._

"_Wow..." He stared at the clover like a prospector might stare at a nugget of gold. "Can I hold it, South? Maybe I'll get to be lucky too."_

"_No! You can't just take all my luck like that! Find your own clover." She held her fist away from him and poked her tongue out._

"_Come on, I'll give it back," he said, but she was unrelenting. He darted forwards, hand outstretched, but she moved at the last second. He overbalanced, grabbed at her skirt as he fell and they both ended up sprawled on the grass. Over and over they rolled, still fighting for the clover but laughing all the while. Ireland never did get to hold it; South had always had a strong grip and stronger determination. In the end they both gave up; they simply lay there on the grass, side by side, staring up at the blue sky._

CRASH!

Another roll of thunder jolted Ireland back to reality. He was no longer in the daisy-filled meadow with his sister; he was sitting under his bed, hugging his legs to his chest and pressing his forehead to his knees, all alone. There were many things Northern Ireland did not like - flashing lights, fireworks, loud noises - but thunder was the worst. Whenever the rainclouds took on that dark, heavy quality that meant a storm was coming, he would shut himself in his bedroom and hide under his bed until it had passed. That was what he was doing now; he'd lost track of time, but England, Scotland and Wales were probably asleep. Good. He didn't have to worry about them finding him. He didn't feel like talking.

CRASH!

_South was standing ten feet away from him, her dark hair soaked in the pouring rain. Her usual bunches had been replaced by a sharp, severe bun at the back of her head and her green eyes, usually warm and sparkling as though they knew a joke that you didn't, were cold and harsh. Her mud-stained military uniform was drenched but she wasn't shivering. The hand that held her gun to her side didn't shake at all._

"_South...what are you doing? No... don't..."_

"_I won't hurt you, North," she said. "Not any more. I'm sorry, but what I did was necessary. I'm fighting for our freedom. Why can't you see that?"_

_He didn't know whether or not he was crying; the raindrops on his face made it hard to tell. "Please, South..."_

"_Come with me!" she said, and suddenly the iron disappeared from her eyes, showing him a fleeting glimpse of the South he knew. For a moment, he could imagine that freckled face smiling, those green, heavy-browed eyes sparkling again. He could forget the black mask now hanging around her neck, the gun at her side, the things she'd done. "We can be our own country again! We can be free! Come with me, North."_

"_N-n... no..."_

"_What?"_

"_I said no, South! I'm not leaving!"_

_And then the iron was back, and his sister was gone. "Why? Why not? You don't have to worry about _him_. I'll protect you. I'm strong now. We don't need him; we can be strong on our own!"_

"_This isn't about strength!" While South may have been perfectly steady, Northern Ireland was shaking violently in the cold. His half-healed wounds were starting to ache and he was beginning to feel lightheaded with exhaustion; he was not strong enough to fight right now. "They're my family and I'm staying with them! They're not perfect, but I don't care! You can leave if you like, but I'm not going with you. Now leave me alone!"_

_The words were caught by the wind and whipped away across the field as soon as he had said them, but they still hung in the minds of the twins long after they had left. They were strong, irreversible, final. Like a death sentence._

_South shook her head slowly. "You eejit, North." She looked him up and down with those cold eyes; he was bruised, bleeding, beaten - he knew he looked pitifully weak but he stared right back at her in defiance. She raised her gun, her hand still refusing to shake. "You stupid idiot."_

"_No!"_

_Both Irelands looked up, trying to find where the unexpected sound had come from. England was running across the field, his usually pristine green uniform as drenched and muddy as theirs. He had a black eye, but aside from that looked strong enough. He was hurt but not beaten, not by a long way._

"_YOU!" South's eyes narrowed as she aimed her gun at England now. He reached them and put an arm in front of his younger brother, shielding him. "You! What are you doing here?"_

"_You can't make him leave! If he wants to stay with us then that's his choice. Just because you've decided to overreact and throw a tantrum like this, you don't have to drag him down with you!"_

_"A tantrum?" South was actually laughing now, but it wasn't out of happiness. It was the sort of cracked, almost hysterical laughter that comes with both physical and emotional exhaustion. "You call this a tantrum? Overreacting? You left me to starve, England. I could've died and you wouldn't have cared. Ever since we were kids you've been bossing me around, telling me what to do, forcing me to live by your rules. But I'm not your slave any more! I'm getting my freedom back no matter what it takes!"_

"_South..."_

"_You _are _overreacting. I was trying to help you!"_

"_Help? Help how? By taking everything I have? Treating me like a servant? Maybe the others are okay with that, but I have more self-respect than them. I don't have to put up with this kind of treatment!"_

"_Then leave!" roared England. He was angrier than North had ever seen him. Even behind his back, being sheltered from potential gunfire, he couldn't help but feel a little scared of him. "Get out of here! I never want to see your ungrateful face again!"_

CRASH!

Ireland hugged his knees tighter to his chest, tears leaking from his eyes. His sister had left that day. She had earned her freedom. Her end had justified her means. She had what she wanted; she was happy now, and Ireland was happy for her despite all the pain that came with the aftermath. He just wished it hadn't had to end the way it did. She had never truly given up on trying to convince him to join her; every conversation they had - most often online or through letters, or occasionally even on the phone when England was away - seemed to eventually make its way back to the issue of where he chose to live. He would be lying if he said he hadn't contemplated the idea, sometimes even regretted letting South leave, but his place was here in the United Kingdom.

CRASH!

_The bang of an explosion, somewhere far too close to home. The crash of shattering windows, shards of glass flying out into the street. The chatter of gunfire. The pains, almost like pins and needles, as you felt each individual citizen die. And always, like a stormcloud hanging over your head, the dull, gnawing fear of not knowing if the street you were in would be the site of the next gunfight or terror attack._

CRASH!

"Ireland?"

His head jolted up off his knees, almost hitting the top of his bed, and he saw England standing in the doorway. He wiped his eyes hurriedly, trying to look as though he was okay, that he'd just chosen to sit under his bed today for no particular reason. "Oh... um, hi."

England wasn't fooled. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" he said, a little too brightly. "Nothing's wrong, I'm fine. S-shouldn't you be in bed?"

CRASH!

Ireland's head shot back against his knees and he couldn't stop himself from letting out a tiny squeak.

"Ireland!" England was next to him now, on his knees to fit under the bed.

Northern Ireland was, as a rule, not a huggy person. He valued his personal space and let no-one, aside from family members and them only grudgingly, into the sacred twelve inches between him and the great unknown. If anyone _was _stupid enough to hug him, he would go stiff as a plank and just stand there awkwardly until they finished. England was not a huggy person either. He was less militant about it than Ireland, but his personal bubble was easily popped and he didn't appreciate emotional displays in his presence. But now, as England wrapped his arms around his brother and Ireland buried his head in his shoulder, all of that was forgotten.

"You didn't have a great time of it either," whispered Ireland. "How are you so... so untroubled?"

England considered this. "You've just got to keep going," he said eventually. "She made her choices. Just let it go and move on."

Ireland sniffed and pulled his head back to see the wet patches his eyes had left on England's shirt. "Sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry about anything. Just don't let it get to you, okay? Stiff upper lip."

He sniffed again and nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I just miss her sometimes, is all."

"That's fine. She is your sister, after all. It's to be expected. But trust me, you're better off without her."

England would say that, of course. England and South had never really got along on the best of days. They were too different - or maybe too similar? He never could tell.

"Now get some sleep." The emotional display was over; England crawled out from under Ireland's bed and stood up. "I think the thunderstorm's finished. You'll be tired in the morning if you stay under there all night."

"Right," he nodded.

"Night then," said England. He smiled at Ireland - that alone was a comfort, since his smiles weren't given out regularly - and shut the door behind him.

Ireland watched him go, then followed his lead in crawling out from under the bed. He climbed to his feet, went over to the window and drew back the curtains; England was right, the stormclouds were gone. The moonlight still showed the dark, swirling pattern of clouds, but they were the wispy, light kind that comes after the rain. They began to disperse as Ireland watched, drifting away across the sky and letting rays of moonlight illuminate the front lawn.

The storm was over.

Maybe now Northern Ireland could finally find some peace.


	7. The Cupboard Under the Stairs

**A/N: It's been a whole week since I've posted one of these! Please accept my sincerest apologies. I've been missing these guys while I was working my way through mountains of accumalated homework, so you can bet I'm coming back to them. School's breaking up soon so hopefully I'll be able to post more often over the next few weeks.**

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><p>Scotland was outraged. It was an unpleasant feeling; a peculiar mix of anger and shock with a twist of fear. It had been spreading through his body, icy tendrils licking at his chest and brain, since he'd lifted the sheets and peeked under his bed less than ten seconds ago. They were gone. He'd squinted through the darkness, even stuck an arm under in the hopes that he'd feel them hiding somewhere out of sight, but there could be no doubt about it.<p>

Someone had stolen his books.

Now the outrage was being overshadowed by something else. Something rising in his chest, swelling, cresting, rolling, sucking in oxygen to feed its fury. Something that had lain dormant for centuries was raising its head to sniff the air once more. The scent of blood and woad filled Scotland's nostrils; the fiery red of burning buildings and the glint of steel danced before his eyes. The last time he had been in this mood, England had been sent fleeing from Bannockburn with an arrow in... well, let's just say Scotland had always been a very good shot with a bow.

But before a bloodthirsty roar could murder the silence, that exact nation appeared in the doorway, depressingly arrow-less (though he never would tell Scotland if he still had a scar).

"Ye..." he rounded on his younger brother, breathing deeply. He never had been good at anger management. "Did ye... were ye the one..."

"No," said England, not at all fazed by the older nation's seething wrath. "I didn't take your poetry books."

"I DINNAE HAVE ANY POETRY BOOKS! Wait, if ye didnae take 'em then hoo do ye knoo- I mean, not that I-"

"It was Ireland," he said before Scotland could dig himself into an even deeper hole. "Ireland took them. I saw him. He was laughing and talking about how he was going to post them all to South to read at the next world meeting."

"WHAT? He wouldnae... I'LL KILL HIM!"

"That," said England, folding his arms, "would be woefully ineffective. And it would probably start some kind of national emergency. No, if I were you, I'd just incapacitate him and steal the books back. Then you can exact revenge as you see fit."

"Well then..." said Scotland, still trying to suppress the urge to strangle his brother and go on a murderous rampage around Europe, "hoo would ye suggest I do that?"

"Lock him in the cupboard under the stairs. That'll keep him out of the way."

As much as Scotland hated to admit it, that made sense. "Okay then. I'll do that. That wee Irish scunner is goin' _doon_."

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><p>While Scotland was formulating his plan, Northern Ireland was carefully reorganising the United Kingdom's CD collection. Well, okay, so they were mostly Wales's, but he was happy to share. They had been building and adding to this collection for years and had everything from <em>The Beatles <em>to _The Chieftains _and they were damned if they were going to switch over to this new _iTunes _thing that America kept enthusing about. Wales spent most of his day with one CD or another in his music player and he never put them back in the right order, or even in the right cases, so it was up to Ireland to reorganise them all. Wales had been going through a major _Duffy _phase recently and the entire D section was all over the place. So that was why, when England found his brother, he was crouched on the floor surrounded by open CD cases.

He didn't bother to ask; Ireland was always fixing, cleaning or sorting something or other. "Ireland, guess what?"

"Not now, England. I'm putting the D section back to how it was before Wales messed it all up. Wait, did Duran Duran release _Big Thing _or _Liberty _first?"

"_Big Thing_, I think. But listen, I have something to tell you! You're gonna want to hear this."

"Go on, then."

"Wales bought your-"

Ireland held up a finger, interrupting him. "How many albums do The Darkness have?"

"Two. But Ireland, I know first-hand that Wales-"

"-Put David Bowie in the D section?" Ireland finished his sentence for him. "I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times, surnames first! Now I have to move all these down to the B's!"

"Wales just bought your St Patrick's day present!" said England as quickly as he could before Ireland could interrupt again.

Ireland paused in carefully placing a Depeche Mode CD back in its case. "What?"

"He just got back from buying it! He forgot last time, remember, so he's trying to be really organised and buy it early this year. He told me he's hidden it really carefully in his room. But I know how you can get to it."

Ireland still hadn't moved a muscle. "I'm listening."

"If you could get him out of the way, you could search his room until you find it. And I know the perfect place."

"Where?"

"The cupboard under the stairs. Lock him in there and you'll have as long as you need."

A smile tugged at the corners of Ireland's mouth, gradually widening until it stretched his face into a beam that made the sun look like a pessimist. "That's brilliant, England."

"I try. Now go! The sooner he's out of the way the sooner you can have your present!"

"Right!" He leapt to his feet and started for the door, then cast a guilty glance back at the unsorted CDs lying on the floor and stopped. He fought a brutal internal battle with himself, rocking backwards and forwards between the door and the CDs, then dropped back to his knees. "Two minutes. Let me just finish putting these away."

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><p>While Ireland was organising CDs as fast as his fingers and his alphabet-singing skills would let him, Wales was sitting on his bed with his CD player turned up to full volume. "<em>You've got me begging you for mercy,<em>" he sang along with the music, rocking backwards and forwards in time to the beat. "_Why won't you release me?_" Time for a high note - he hit it perfectly, just like he always did. He wasn't known as The Land of Song for nothing, after all.

"Wales?"

"_Now you think that I would be something on the side..._"

"Wales!"

"_But you've got to understand that I need a man who can take my hand, yes I do..._"

"WALES!"

He jumped, stabbed at the pause button, heard his finger crack and, shaking it violently, turned to see England standing in the doorway. "Um... yes?"

"I don't want to alarm you, but we have an emergency."

"An emergency?" Wales was still out of breath and his finger was throbbing. He wasn't in much of a state to cope with national emergencies. A pang of worry started up in his chest. "What's wrong? Is it Ireland? Scotland? Are they okay?"

"They're fine... for now. But I have advance warning that something terrible is going to happen in the next few hours."

Wales bit back a swear word. It was Welsh and England wouldn't have understood it, but he didn't like swearing unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he'd used up his entire swearing quota for the month when his rugby team lost to South Africa. "What's going to happen? Is it terrorists? Is it South again? Is someone invading? Tell me!"

"It's worse than that. Much worse."

Wales gulped. "Tell me. I can take it." He may be small, but he was strong. If his people were going to die, if he was going to be hurt and his country destroyed, he needed to be prepared.

England took a deep breath and appeared to steel himself. "...It's Scotland. He's planning to make haggis for dinner tonight."

Something icy threatened to stop Wales's heart. This was much worse than anything he could've expected. He grasped at the bedpost to keep his balance, desperately trying to force oxygen back into his lungs. "No... please... anything but haggis..."

"Wales! Pull yourself together! I have a plan!"

Wales paused in his convulsing on the bed. "What?"

"If you can lock him in the cupboard under the stairs in the next ten minutes, he won't be able to make it!"

"That's genius!" He pulled himself back into a sitting position and stared eagerly at England.

"Go, then! Quickly! I'll hide the ingredients and you figure out a way to get him into that cupboard!"

"Yes sir!" Wales saluted, then leapt to his feet and ran from the room.

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><p>Ten minutes later, after much promising, threatening, lying and manoeuvring, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland found themselves standing in the hallway just outside the cupboard under the stairs.<p>

"It's really not that bad," said Ireland, switching on the light to show the cluttered but relatively clean space inside. "No spiders or anything. I'd do it myself, but I know how good you are at finding things."

"I don't know," said Wales, pretending to think about this. "You're the best at that, Ireland. Maybe we should let Scotland do it? He _is_ the _bravest_, after all." He turned big, dewy eyes up to his older brother, trying to look as young and innocent as possible.

"Nae," Scotland said, folding his arms. "Ye goo in, Ireland. Wales is right, ye knoo hoo ter find things best."

"I'll go in if Wales goes in too."

"I'm not going in without Scotland."

"Fine, why dinnae we all just goo in?"

"Sounds good to me," said Ireland. _I'll get out quick and shut the door on Wales, then that present is mine!_

And so it was that they all stepped into the cupboard under the stairs as one, and so it was that England, who had been waiting just around the corner, strolled past, shut the door and casually turned the key in the lock.

"Hey!" came a heavily accented voice from behind the wooden door. The handle shook but refused to turn. "The wee scunner's locked us in!"

"What? No!"

"England! Let us out!"

"Fat chance," said England through the keyhole. "The EU's coming over for a meeting in half an hour and I'm not letting you screw this up for me. You can stay in there until I let you out."

"We wilnae do anythin'! Ye never trust us!"

"That's because last time I let you out during a meeting you started the Korean War."

"That wasnae our fault!"

"Yeah, just because _someone _couldn't take it when South Korea said he invented the telephone-"

"HE DIDNAE INVENT THE BLOODY TELEPHONE!"

"Calm down! He said he invented the microphone as well and I didn't punch out his brother!"

England sighed and wandered away to prepare for the meeting, leaving his brothers locked securely in the cupboard. World peace would endure as long as they kept falling for that same trick every time it was his turn to host a meeting. They'd have forgotten this by then - all he had to do was present the same scheme slightly differently; worked every time. When was the next meeting here again? Right, next month. He had a good feeling that this trick would work just as well the twenty-fourth time he'd used it as it had the twenty-third.

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><p><strong>AN: Insert begging for reviews here. I am way too attached to those things...**


	8. A Geography Lesson

**Sorry for the massive long gap! School's nearly over now (one more day!) and I have nothing planned for the holidays, so I'll probably write obsessively for weeks and post three new fanfictions every day. Well, maybe not three, but I'll certainly be able to update more often.**

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><p>America was feeling pretty pleased with life. America was usually pleased with life, but today was special. He didn't know why, or even how it was any different from any of the other days he declared as special (all of them), but he did know that he was feeling particularly good today. He was just having one of those days where his own awesomeness decided to parade around in front of him, reminding him just how cool he was. And, as he often did when everything was well with the world, he decided to visit Britain. The other nation could be grumpy at times and honestly seemed to hate him at others, but America couldn't help liking him. Besides, it gave him a certain self-satisfaction to be awesome in front of others rather than just for himself.<p>

And so it was that America turned up at the United Kingdom's house one rainy morning. He rang the doorbell, brushed the mud off his shoes on the doormat and waited to be shown in before politely entering the house. Or rather, that's what he would've done if he felt like it. He didn't feel like it, so he just waltzed right on in.

"What's up, British dude!" he yelled, announcing his presence to the world.

"Oh, hello America!" Wales appeared from the living room door and shook his hand. "Not much, really. Same as ever. You?"

America frowned at him. "You're not a British dude. Where's Britain?"

"Britain?" Now it was Wales's turn to look confused. "You mean Great Britain?"

"No, Britain! You know, blond, drinks tea, giant caterpillars attached to his forehead?" America's eyes wandered up to Wales's own forehead. "Wait, are you related to him?"

The lightbulb of realisation flickered on in Wales's eyes. "Oh, you want England!"

"Yeah, England, Britain, same thing."

Scotland, who had been passing through the hallway on his way to the kitchen, stopped dead. "What?"

"England and Britain are the same thing, aren't they?"

"Say that agin, America. I dare ye."

"What? What's wrong?" America looked from the dark blond, curly-haired nation to the redheaded one whose hair looked like he made a hobby of sticking forks in plug sockets, and noticed one similarity. They both had those ridiculous eyebrows. "What's going on?"

"Don't kill him, Scotland," sighed Wales. "Get England and Ireland. I think he needs to hear it. All of it."

"Right ye ae. I'll get them. Ye sit 'im doon and get the whiteboard."

"What whiteboard?" asked America, now, if possible, even more confused. "What are you doing?"

Wales led him through into the living room and sat him down on the settee. "Don't be alarmed, America. We're giving you The Talk."

"The Talk? Oh, don't worry, England's already given me that."

England, who had just entered the room with the others, froze. Wales, Scotland and Ireland all slowly turned to look at him. There were a few seconds of the most silent silence Wales had ever heard before.

"What?" asked England defensively, rapidly turning scarlet. "Someone had to do it! I couldn't just let him breed!"

"That's not the kind of talk we meant, America," explained Wales as the other nations tried valiantly to contain their laughter with England glaring at them in warning of what would happen if they failed. "This is a geography lesson, so pay attention, okay?"

Five minutes later, all four members of the United Kingdom - plus America - were ready to begin. America was sitting on the settee, the sole audience member, and the UK were all gathered around the large wheeled whiteboard Scotland had pushed into the room. They were ready.

"Okay," started England, picking up a marker and writing his own name on the whiteboard. "That's me."

"That's you," agreed America, concentrating hard. He didn't know what he was supposed to be learning but he was damned if he wasn't going to learn it through and through.

Satisfied with America's understanding, England wrote three more names next to his own. "And that's Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland." He pointed to each of his brothers in turn. Wales gave a little wave, Scotland smiled broadly and Ireland nodded in acknowledgment.

"Right. Hi guys!"

"Hi!" they chorused back.

"Ooh, I get it! They're like your states, right?" he asked, looking at England.

Scotland snorted loudly. "Not bloody likely! Gimme that." He took the marker off England and drew a big, wobbly circle around the four names. "We ae the _United Kingdom_. A country o' countries, really."

"So you're all countries, but you're a country together as well?"

"It's weird," said Ireland, "but yeah."

"And you're not England?"

"Nae," said Scotland.

"But I do have our capital. London's the capital of England and the United Kingdom."

"But we dae all hae our ain capitals too. Mine's Edinburgh."

"Mine's Cardiff," added Wales.

"And I have Belfast," put in Ireland.

"Okay, I get it," said America, sitting up and smiling widely. This was easy! "You're all separate countries, but you're all Britain together!"

England winced. "So close. There's actually no such place as Britain."

Now that knocked America off balance. "What? Yes there is! You're Britain! I've been calling you Britain for years!"

"That's because it's easier to say than the United Kingdom," said Ireland.

"So the United Kingdom and Britain are the same thing?"

"Nope," said Ireland. He took the pen off Scotland and drew another circle around the other three names, leaving himself off. "You know the long skinny island, with Scotland up the top, England down the bottom and Wales off to the side?"

America thought for a moment, then nodded. "'Course I do."

"That's called Great Britain. It's not a country, it's just the name of an island. Britain is a shortened form of that."

"You left yourself out," pointed out America.

"That was intentional. I'm not on the island of Great Britain."

"Where are you, then?"

"I'm the northeastern section of Ireland."

"Oh, I know her!" America was suddenly even more enthusiastic. "She's awesome! I talk to her all the time at world meetings! She's very busy, though - she always has to leave as soon as I get a chance to speak to her. But she's cool! A whole load of my citizens are from her country, you know. She's just-"

Observing quite a few danger signs in England's sudden stiffness, Ireland thought it best to interrupt. "Anyway, she's not actually called Ireland."

"What? Yes she is! She's-"

"She's called the Republic of Ireland. I am Northern Ireland. 'Ireland' is the name of the island we're both on. We use it as a nickname sometimes, but it's no more of a country than Great Britain is."

"You know Ireland," said Wales. "It's the island west of Great Britain. Looks like a teddy bear."

"Of course I know Ireland," scoffed America, folding his arms and leaning back into the settee.

Just to make sure, Northern Ireland wrote 'The Republic of Ireland' outside the circle, drew another, slightly neater, circle around his name and hers and labelled it 'Ireland'.

"So..." America squinted at the Venn diagram taking shape on the whiteboard, "you're all part of the United Kingdom, and you're also British. Except you," he pointed at Northern Ireland.

"Am too! Just because I don't happen to be _geographically _on Great Britain doesn't mean I can't be-"

Now it was Wales's turn to snatch the pen away before Ireland threw it at America. "He is British. He's part of the British Isles. Great Britain, Ireland and all the little islands around them are all part of the British Isles." He drew a great big circle around the entire drawing and labelled it 'The British Isles.' "Get it?"

"Yep! You're all the United Kingdom. You're all in the British Isles, but only England, Wales and Scotland are part of Great Britain."

"He caught on faster than I expected," said England, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Maybe he's not as stupid as he looks after all."

"Nowhere near, dude!" grinned America, completely missing the double meaning of this statement.

"Congratulations," announced Ireland. "You pass."

"Wait, we're not finished!" England grabbed the pen off Wales. "It's a whole lot more complicated than that! We still haven't told him about the autonomous regions and the Commonwealth Realm and the Crown Dependencies and the British Overseas Territories!"

America's face went from triumphant to confused again in the space of a few seconds and his head slowly began to tilt further to one side the longer England talked. Taking pity on him, Wales took the pen back and snapped the lid back into place. "We'll go into that another day. He's covered the basics, at least; we don't want to overload him."

"Yea, that'll dae fer noo," agreed Scotland.

America left the house of the United Kingdom that day feeling even more pleased with himself than he had been on the way there. _Why do they have to be so complicated, anyway? _That visit had confirmed what he had suspected all along: the UK was weird. Overly complicated, difficult to understand and, above all, weird. But at least he got it now! He, the United States of America, had faced a British Isles geography lesson - the basics, anyway - and won. That confirmed another of his theories: he was made of awesomeness.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and began to whistle _The Star-Spangled Banner. _All was good with him, and that must mean that all was good with the world as well. As he turned a corner, he noticed a dark-haired girl walking down the street opposite him.

"Ireland!" he shouted, running towards her with a huge smile breaking out across his face. "Long time no see! How ya been?"

She jumped in surprise, saw the American hurtling towards her and her face went from pleasantly content with life to annoyed and irritated in the space of a few seconds. "Fine, thanks," she said, increasing her speed. Her voice was slightly tight, as though she was bothered by something. _I know! I'll cheer her up with my awesome new British Isles knowledge!_

"I was just at the United Kingdom's house," he said, jogging to keep up with her.

"How nice."

"And they told me all about how _British _you were!"

Ireland stopped dead and America ran right into her back. "Excuse me?"

"You know, because you're part of the British Isles! You're British!"

That was the last thing he remembered. He never did quite work out what happened, but all he knew was that he regained consciousness a few hours later lying sprawled on the pavement, he had a killer black eye for weeks afterwards and the Republic of Ireland now refused to talk to him. He had a nagging feeling deep in the back of his mind that he'd done something wrong, but he never listened to nagging feelings deep in the back of his mind anyway. Nevertheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe British geography was a little more complicated than any sane American should ever have to deal with.


	9. House Party

**THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE O.O**

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><p>One rainy day in the middle of summer, England announced to his brothers that he was leaving for London to meet with the Prime Minister and the Queen and discuss the affairs of the United Kingdom. He would be gone for one night, there was money on the counter for a takeaway and no, they were not coming with him. He was a little surprised by Scotland's lack of resistance as he closed the front door behind him - his brother always put up a fight to represent his country separately - but he wasn't complaining. It was, he decided, a good omen.<p>

The moment England's car pulled out of the driveway, Scotland turned to the other two with a smile that would've frightened Jack the Ripper. "Noo that he's oot o' the way, hoo aboot we throw a party?"

"A party?" Wales asked excitedly, clapping his hands together. "I love parties! Especially musical statues. I'm really good at-"

"Nae that kind o' party," said Scotland, "a proper party. We can invite everyone and stay oop all night, get completely bloostered and still hae everythin' cleaned oop by the time England gets hame!"

His two brothers looked at him like he'd just suggested they cut their arms off and eat them. "Why would we want to do that?" asked Ireland.

"Because it'll be _fun_," explained Scotland slowly. "And besides, we never get tae meet anyone! We're always stuck here while England gaes oot and gets all the friends. Come on guys, what dae ye say?"

They looked at each other, then back at Scotland. "We'll definitely be able to clean up in time?" asked Ireland.

"'Course we will!"

"Do we get to play musical statues?" asked Wales.

"Nae. Trust me, there'll be better things ter dae than musical statues."

Ireland sighed. "Fine."

It took them only a few hours to prepare. Wales put together a playlist, Scotland sent out a notice to all the countries he could think of and Ireland took care of getting his hands on the best Irish beer. Wales was also in charge of the decorations, and while Scotland thought that balloons were okay - popping them and making people jump never ceased to amuse him - he drew the line at coloured streamers. The sun had begun to set when the first guests arrived.

At first it was alright. America came, of course, dragging Canada behind him. Then Poland, Lithuania in tow, and France and Spain and the Italy brothers and Prussia and Denmark with the rest of Scandinavia, then Hungary dragging Austria and too many more to count until the entire house was overflowing with people.

"How many invites did you send out?" asked Ireland, shouting to be heard above the music. He was watching people stream in through the doorway with a slightly worried look in his eyes.

"Not that many! But then, they did say tae bring friends..."

Ireland sighed. "Scotland... you can't just- oh my God, you invited South."

The Republic of Ireland was stepping in through the doorway, her eyes darting around the room as if half-expecting England to drop from the ceiling and ambush her.

"She's our sister, isnae she? I couldnae just leave her oot."

"England's going to kill us..."

"Hey, Northern Ireland!" Belgium was pushing her way through the crowds towards them, the coloured lights reflecting off the glittery ribbon in her hair and the shiny material of her distractingly short dress. "We're setting up a drinking contest over in the kitchen and the Netherlands says you're the one to beat. Want to come and defend your title?"

Ireland stared pointedly at his feet. "Um... well, I don't really have a title, it's more of a reputation, but-"

"Come on!" she laughed, grabbing his arm and pulling him away through the crowd.

And so Scotland was left alone. He didn't know where Wales had got to, but he did know that he was the host of this party and shouldn't be left to fend for himself like this. So he lifted his chin, ran his fingers through his hair (which only served to make it look even messier) and went in search of company.

Five minutes later, he had found that company in a certain white-haired Prussian and was pretty sure he'd found his new best friend.

"And Germany keeps trying to stop me from coming to world meetings!" he said, banging his glass on the table in outrage. "It's so un-awesome!"

"I knoo!" Scotland felt his pain, he really did. "England keeps insisting on going tae everything by himself! It's like he dunnae even recognise me as a country!"

Prussia opened his mouth to say something else, but it was cut off by a broad accent shouting from the other side of the room.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T KNOW ANY KYLIE?"

Prussia squinted to get a good look through the crowd, then threw back his head and laughed. "Looks like someone's giving that sissy over there what he deserves. Come on, this'll be too awesome to miss."

They pushed their way towards the back of the room, where Austria had commandeered Wales's electric keyboard and was now arguing loudly with an outraged Australia. "Who on Earth is Kylie? Is she some kind of Australian composer?"

"She's not a composer, you idiot! She's a singer!"

"Oh. I don't sing."

"I told you, if you play the music then I'll do the lyrics! It's not that difficult!"

"But I don't know any Kylie!"

This was too much for Australia. "Oh, fine then! Fine, Mr I'm-Better-Than-Australia-Because-I'm-All-Cultured-And-Stuff! _Don't_ play any Kylie! First you take my name, then you-"

"What are you talking about? I didn't take your name!"

"Austria? Australia? A bit coincidental, don't you think?"

"I was called Austria long before you started calling yourself-"

"What is going on here?" A new figure emerged from the crowd, wearing a green dress with a pink flower in her long brown hair. Scotland recognised her from one of the world meetings England had let him come to - Hungary. Wielding a frying pan like a sword (_I dinnae ken where she got that from, it isnae one of ours_), she stepped between Austria and Australia and gave the latter a dangerous look.

"Aw, come on sweetheart," said Prussia, folding his arms and pouting at her. "Things were just starting to get awesome!"

"Go away, Prussia," she said, not even looking at him. "You'll make everything worse."

He clapped his hands to his chest as if he'd just been shot. "Ouch! She's so mean to me, Scotland."

"I said go away!" This time she did turn towards them, and the look on her face was dangerous. It was also surprisingly hot. Scotland didn't know why he said it - maybe it was the atmosphere of the party going to his head, maybe it was to impress his new friend, maybe it was both - but the words were out of his mouth before he realised he'd done anything wrong.

"Dinnae be such a killjoy, hot stuff!"

And then the frying pan connected with his head and everything went black.

Ireland, meanwhile, was on his fifteenth shot. Belgium, the Netherlands and most of the Nordics were cheering him and his enthusiastic opponent, Denmark. Bending to the peer pressure like a reed in the wind, he neatly poured himself a sixteenth and downed it. Denmark, his eyes blazing with determination, spilt the vodka all over the table before managing to hit the glass.

"Guys, I'm telling you, _I don't get drunk_," he said, looking around at them with pleading eyes. "I don't know what it is, but my sister's the same. It's just a quirk. Let me stop before Denmark kills himself!"

"Nuh-uh!" Denmark raised a finger to point at him accusingly, tracing wobbly circles in the air. "No excushes! You aren't backing out thish eashily!"

Ireland sighed, letting his eyes wander around the room and wondering idly how long it would take him to clean this mess up in the morning. Then the cheering started again - he didn't even look back at the table as he poured himself another shot without spilling a drop.

And then South caught his eye. She was slipping through the crowd towards the corridor, her green eyes darting from side to side as though checking to make sure no-one was following her. _What's she up to? I'd better go and check before she does any damage._

He excused himself - the spectators shouted their disappointment and Denmark began to do a strange sort of flailing victory dance, declaring himself the winner before passing out on the table. Ireland made his way carefully through the seething mass of people and tapped her on the shoulder just before she reached the door.

"Oh! Hey North!" she chirped, flashing him a warm smile. "What's up?"

"What are you doing?" he asked, careful not to sound too suspicious.

"Nothing! Why would you think I was doing anything? I'm just enjoying the party, that's what I'm doing!"

"What's that?" The bottle in her hand was different to any of the paper cups other people were holding.

"It's just a little cocktail," she said evasively.

And that was precisely when Russia brushed past them, looked down at the bottle and smiled. "Ah! I recognise that! It was named after man from my country, da? What was his name... oh yes, Vyacheslav Molotov." Then he was gone, and Ireland stood rooted to the spot as the meaning of this dawned on him.

South spun on her heel and raced away down the corridor, her twin brother in hot pursuit.

Meanwhile, Wales was feeling awkward. No-one seemed interested in playing musical statues, pass the parcel or any of the games he'd prepared for this occasion. The music was too loud - Scotland had approved his choices, but now insisted on playing them at eardrum-bursting volumes. All in all, it wasn't his favourite party ever.

He cast his eyes around the room, looking for someone to talk to. They latched onto a girl sitting in the corner and looking just as awkward as he was. He didn't recognise her; she was a small country with blue eyes and a ribbon tied in her short blonde hair. A potential friend! Wales ducked through the crowd, muttering 'excuse me's and 'sorry's as he went, and sat down next to her.

"Nice to meet you," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Wales."

She took his hand and shook it. "I'm Liechtenstein."

"Really? That's a pretty name. I've never heard of you before."

"Not many people have," she said. She had a quiet voice; Wales had to lean in to hear it over the music.

"Not many people have heard of me either," he confessed. "They all just think I'm part of England most of the time."

"Me too! Everyone thinks I'm part of Switzerland."

Wales smiled widely at her; here was a kindred spirit. "Do you like musical statues?"

"I love musical statues!"

"Me too! It's the best game ever! I _told _Scotland people would want to play it!"

She was beaming back at him now, all the awkwardness gone. "I like all dancing, really. And music."

"I love music! Did you know people call me the Land of Song?"

Her mouth formed a little 'o'. "That's so cool!"

"Maybe we could play musical statues by ourselves? It'll be more fun than sitting around. But it's too crowded down here..."

"What is going on over here?"

They both jumped and looked up; Switzerland was looming over them, arms folded.

"This is Wales, big brother," said Liechtestein. "He was just talking to me."

"Just talking?" Switzerland sounded suspicious. "About what?"

"Um..." Wales quailed under his stony glare. "Just... just things that people do at parties, sir."

Switzerland's hand twitched towards his coat; Wales could've sworn he saw a flash of metal under there and felt the colour drain from his face. "What things, Wales? Tell me and I might not shoot you."

"Big brother, no! He wasn't-"

"You don't know what people do at parties, Liechtenstein! I knew I shouldn't have let you come. You're too naive! People take advantage of you!"

"I wasn't taking advantage of her! She wanted to do it as well!" _Why is he making such a fuss about musical statues?_

Switzerland's hand was a blur as he yanked a pistol from his coat at lightning speed and aimed it directly at Wales. "Do what? _Do what? What were you suggesting to my sister?_"

"Nothing! I wasn't-" a realisation hit him. He knew the perfect solution to all their musical statues-related problems! "Ooh, Liechtestein! I bet there's loads of room for it in my bedroom!"

And that was when Switzerland shot him three times in the stomach.

Upstairs, Northern Ireland managed to rugby tackle his sister to the floor, prise the bottle from her hands and hurl it through the open window. It hit the ground and exploded violently, taking Wales's daffodil patches with it. _Oops. _He turned to South, who was glowering at him from the carpet, and was about to ask her to leave when the sound of gunshots rang out through the house. He sighed, spun around and raced downstairs to clean up what was sure to be yet another mess.

Meanwhile, Scotland had regained consciousness and managed to drag himself out onto the front lawn. It was the only place he could be sure there would be no dancing feet stamping on him while he tried to recover from his injuries. _That boggin', sleekit dunderheid needs to loosen oop... _He stared up at the moon, aching all over and feeling distinctly light-headed. He was actually quite sure he was hallucinating; he remembered seeing a bottle fly out of an upstairs window and explode right in the flowerbeds, then he could've sworn he heard gunshots and saw Northern Ireland carry Wales out to the car and screech off down the driveway. Behind him, he heard glass breaking, people shrieking with laughter and music thumping loudly enough to wake up the whole of Europe if they weren't already all here. There was no way they were getting all this cleaned up before England came home. It was out of control. But then the Loch Ness Monster flew down to lie next to him and he felt alright again.

The next thing he knew, a foot was nudging him in the side. "What the bloody _hell _is going on here? The meeting finished early and I thought I'd come home to a nice cup of tea and a sit-down but _this _is what I see? What have you done?"

"England!" Scotland's voice was shaking in relief, not fear, as he rolled over and clutched at his trouser leg. "England, I'm sorry! It's my fault! Just make them leave!"

"Where are Wales and Ireland? Why are the daffodil patches on fire?"

"I dinnae ken aboot the daffodils, but I think Ireland's taking Wales to hospital." He didn't know how he knew that; his brain must've connected the dots without him realising.

"_What_?"

"He'll be fine!" Scotland was desperate now. He could hear ominous smashing noises from what sounded like his bedroom. It took more than a few bullet wounds to kill a country, anyway. "Just make them all go away!"

England looked up at the house, sighed, and disentangled his leg from Scotland's grasp. "Fine. But you're cleaning up."

And as he walked away towards the house, Scotland felt a sense of relief descend over him. England would probably make his life hell for the next few days, force him to clean up all the mess by himself and, even when it was all over, he doubted he'd ever live it down. But he didn't mind; all that mattered was that everything would be okay now.

If anyone could kill a party before it could kill them, it was his little brother.


	10. What Binds Them Together

**A/N: I think I might write some more historical one-shots rather than just sticking to modern times. What do you guys think?**

**Side notes: 'Tuaisceart' is pronounced 'TOO-ish-cart' and Pirate!England is awesome.**

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><p>The year was 1707 and Northern Ireland was about to lose another five shillings to his sister.<p>

"Straight flush," she said, placing her cards on the table with a cocky grin. "You?"

Ireland looked at his cards and grimaced. Truth be told, he had a two of spades, a four of diamonds, a Jack of spades and a nine of clubs, which, however you looked at it, could not be a more worthless hand.

More to postpone the moment of his inevitable humiliation than anything else, Northern Ireland sighed, leant back in his chair and surveyed the room. England was stretched out on the couch with a bottle of rum within easy grabbing distance, absentmindedly cleaning his disassembled musket and whistling a sea shanty Ireland didn't recognise under his breath. The entire living room - and most of the house, at that - was decorated with the spoils of his journeys around the world: a colourful Indian rug, a table carved from the enormous trunk of some African tree, cushions with a pattern that looked distinctly Caribbean. Ireland had never been to any of those places, but if his brother's stories weren't exaggerated (and he had a suspicion they were, at least a little bit, unless England really had fought off fire-breathing snakes in Argentina and rescued his entire crew from an evil witch-doctor in Tahiti) then he would like very much to go with him to see them someday. His boss would object, of course, but then his boss would object if he even knew he was here in the first place. Official relations between their countries had been sour lately, to say the least, but Northern Ireland still dragged his sister to reluctant meetings and awkward dinners. The way he saw it, they were far more likely to get somewhere if they could talk about things rationally rather than communicate through rebellions and uprisings.

"North? You listening?"

He snapped back to reality and looked back down at his useless cards. He sighed again, took a deep breath and prepared to hurl himself onto his proverbial sword.

Northern Ireland was spared at the last second by Wales, who slipped quietly into the room and stared at the carpet while he said, "Scotland to see you, sir."

England looked up from his musket in surprise. "Scotland? Why?"

"I don't know, he just-"

"Send him in," he said, sitting up and making a sweeping gesture with the hand that wasn't holding the dirty cloth.

Scotland, it had to be said, did not look himself. He had the same demeanor as usual, of course - chin raised, hands on hips, looking around the room as though challenging it to a fight - but there was something... _off_ about him. His face was a little more gaunt than usual, his paleness more pronounced, his clothes discreetly but noticeably patched.

"What's up with him?" whispered South, leaning in so no-one but her brother could hear. He shrugged, but his mind raced with possibilities. Financial difficulties, maybe? He didn't look sick, as such, or wounded... maybe he'd just fallen on hard times?

"Scotland," said England, an easy grin spreading over his face. "Long time no see. How's that empire working out for you?"

Scotland did not deflate, not really. If anything, he puffed up and glared at his brother as though he'd just horribly and deliberately insulted him. But when he spoke, his voice was obviously restrained. "Hello, England. I'm 'ere on... official business."

"Official business? What sort of official business?"

Scotland stared at his feet, then at his brother, then around the room, then at his brother again. He shuffled his feet and said through gritted teeth, "Well... ye've got tae understand... I dinnae want... I mean, my people dinnae want... but my boss says..."

"Get on with it," said England, folding his arms and leaning back against the couch. He didn't know what was going on here, but he could feel that he had the upper hand in this conversation and he was enjoying it.

"Ineedaunionwithye," he said, so fast Ireland didn't quite catch it.

"Excuse me?"

Scotland took a deep breath and said very slowly, "I need a union. With... ye."

"A union?" England feigned confusion, widening his eyes in surprise, but Ireland knew what he was doing. He'd been expecting this for a while now - they all had. "Why ever would you want that? I thought you hated me."

"I dae!" he said defensively, staring his brother in the eyes. "Dinnae ye go thinkin' it's _me_ that wants this! It's just my boss, ye ken? But... well... the empire didnae go doon so well. And noo... we're broke."

"Oh dear! Whatever happened to your empire, brother dearest?"

Scotland ground his teeth. "Panama... was a bad idea," he said, his voice strained. "The locals didnae want any of the wool we had ter sell, so we ran oot of money. None of the crops grew, and then..."

"And then?" prompted England.

"And then Spain decided he didnae like us colonising the same place as him and attacked us."

"But I imagine that was easy to fend off," said England breezily. "I mean, Spain attacked me a little while ago and I defeated him with no trouble at all."

Scotland was going to explode, observed Ireland. He was going to explode all over the living room and poor Wales would have to clean everything up. South would probably escort him back home before he could do anything to help, as well. "He's stronger in Panama," said Scotland slowly.

England opened his mouth slightly in mock surprise. "He defeated you? Goodness, Scotland, that must've been humiliating."

"And so," he soldiered on, ignoring the blond nation grinning at him from the couch, "I came home. Only... I spent every penny I had on that expedition. So... I'm broke."

"And you want me to bail you out," finished England.

"Not bail me out! Just... provide support."

"And bail you out."

"Nae! It'll be a partnership! I move in here and help ye with yer empire, and we share what we earn. Fair's fair."

"And what makes you think I want a partnership with you, Scotland?"

"Well, we already 'ave the same Queen. It willnae be such a big deal, really. We just need ter merge governments."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Scotland fidgeted, stared around the room and looked to the Ireland twins for help. Northern Ireland shrugged and South mouthed 'sorry' - there was nothing they could do. "Okay," he said, trying a different tact. "Ye've wanted ter get me under yer control for years. Noo's yer chance. I mean, ye even invaded a few centuries ago! Just because I beat ye then dinnae mean that-"

"You did not _defeat _me," said England, raising his chin a little and crossing his arms a little tighter. "I chose to withdraw after seeing what a frigid dump you live in."

"Chose ter?" Scotland couldn't suppress a laugh. "Tell me, dae ye still have that scar from Bannockburn? From when I shot ye in the-"

"I do _not_ have a scar!" England's voice had gone considerably more high-pitched than usual and he was turning a bright shade of scarlet. "You know what, I've made my decision. I don't want you hanging around and stinking up my house. Now go away. Wales!"

The smaller nation stuck his head through the door just in time to have it slammed in his face by Scotland. "Noo just wait a moment! Ye cannae just leave me ter starve! I'm yer brother!"

"If you're going to turn this into a family thing, ask them," said England, pointing over to the table where the Ireland twins were sitting. South opened her mouth to protest, but Scotland didn't even look at them.

"Dinnae bring them inter this! I'm asking fer your help, not theirs."

"But you're not getting it. I think there's some spare change on the table by the front door - you're welcome to it. Now get out."

Scotland opened his mouth to make some angry retort, closed it, looked desperately around the room again as if hoping the Chinese curtains would jump to his aid, then spun around to stomp back out of the room. Before he could take the first step, something fell from his kilt and clattered to the wooden floorboards.

"What's that?" asked South, as Scotland bent to scoop it back up.

"Nothin'," he said, shoving it back into the leather pouch hanging over the tartan cloth. It promptly hit the floor again. "Ach, there's a hole in it, I knew it was-"

"Scotland..." England was leaning forwards now, interested. "What is that?"

"I said it was nothin'!"

"Well, it's too small to be a poetry book..." he mused, cocky again now. "Especially one of yours, since the writing would have to be really big if you wanted to read it. Maybe it's a token from a lady?" He paused, then burst out laughing. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Wait, did you steal the Irelands' lucky charms?"

"How many times, we don't have any lucky charms!" shouted South.

Scotland spun around, eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and hopelessness that made England's grin slip from his face in seconds. He shoved his hand under his brother's nose with the same ferocity as if he'd been punching him. "There! Happy?"

Northern Ireland couldn't see what it was, but he did see England's eyes widen as he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Then he heard South let out a tiny breath as they both caught a glimpse of it. It was a tiny bronze charm in the shape of a Celtic knot, expertly made but tarnished with age. England's eyes followed the single fine strand as it twisted and turned, over and under, until it met its own tail and left behind it an intricate, symmetrical pattern.

"Mum gave it to me," snapped Scotland, giving up on the pouch and leaving the knot clutched in his fist. He spun around and stomped back towards the door, but England stopped him with a single, "Wait." Both of the Ireland twins - and Wales, who had come in from the kitchen with a tray of scones but had frozen in the doorway - watched as England stuck a hand into the pocket of his ruffled shirt.

Northern and Southern Ireland looked at each other, then he put his hand in his pocket and she pulled out the chain from around her neck. On the other side of the room, Wales was reaching down inside his apron. And in the room full of exotic treasures and foreign mementos, five identical Celtic knots reflected the light cast by the Indonesian scented candles.

Northern Ireland remembered the day when Britannia had given each of her children one of these. He had been young at the time, his body and mind no older than eight, and Wales had been even younger. It was more of a sensory memory than anything - he remembered her smell, somewhere between roses, honey and salt, the red of her hair, the sound of her voice as she pressed it into the palm of his hand, closed his fingers over it and said, "I give you this knot for a reason, Tuaisceart." He hadn't known what she meant then, and he hadn't known any of the others had been given one. But now, in a sudden blaze of understanding that he saw mirrored in his siblings' eyes, he knew. She had given them knots to bind them together.

"Mum gave me one too," said England quietly.

"And me," said the twins in unison.

"And me," said Wales.

England looked at the knots held out around the room, then at his, then at Scotland's, then back at his again, and sighed. "I'll take care of the finances if you do the paperwork."

Scotland's mouth dropped open. "Does that mean... are ye..."

"How does 'the United Kingdom of Great Britain' sound?"

"It... it sounds grand," he said, trying his best not to smile too widely and failing. "I... I just... th... thank..."

"Yes?"

"Tha...nk God William Wallace isn't here to see me now."

Palm met face. "Yes, I'm sure you are. Wales! Find him some new clothes. He's not hanging around my house looking like that. And get him some trousers, please."

"Hey! What's wrong with this?"

"It's a skirt."

"IT'S A KILT!"

"It's a skirt."

Northern and Southern Ireland looked at each other once again and rolled their eyes to the heavens in perfect unison. Scotland and England unifying wasn't really going to mean less fighting at all, was it? Less wars, maybe, but living in the same house would mean a hundred times as many arguments. All Northern Ireland knew was that he was glad he and his sister didn't have to live with them.

More in an attempt to block out his brothers' voices than anything, he put his cards down on the table seconds before he remembered how terrible they were and winced. "You win, sis."

"Yay!" She grabbed the coins from the table and tucked them shamelessly into her petticoats. "Rematch, North?"

Scotland had England's pirate hat now and was claiming that if they were throwing out ridiculous clothes, this had to be the first to go. Ireland could feel a headache coming on as he gathered up his cards and handed them back to his sister. "Sure, why not?"

And as she shuffled, Wales ran for a cloth to clean up the now-spilt rum and Scotland and England wrestled on the couch, Ireland knew that he should be a lot more annoyed than he was. But, as he tucked the knot back into his pocket, he couldn't help but think that it sounded like home.


	11. Truth Telling

**Hey, would you look at that! Another serious one. Wherever did that come from?**

**Oh, right: since I've done Northern Ireland's backstory, I figured I might as well touch on England's a bit as well. I always wondered if his Empire-obsessed phase had anything to do with all the invasions he went through as a kid, and I decided that yeah, it probably did. So this is sort of my take on the whole British Empire thing. Please let me know what you think!**

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><p>To the United Kingdom, the Commonwealth was like an extended family. Nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles who live overseas and only see each other for family meetings and to compete in the occasional sporting event. Maybe you don't know everything about them, maybe you're only on a Christmas-card basis, but you have history and no-one forgets that. Which is why, once a year, England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland made sure to have a Commonwealth reunion party.<p>

Scotland sat back and smiled lazily, letting his eyes wander across the table. Wales and New Zealand were talking animatedly - _aboot sheep, probably _- like they'd never been separated; those two had always got along like a house on fire. Australia was busy trying to butt into their conversation, making crude jokes about the exact nature of their love for sheep. Northern Ireland, relaxed for once in his life, was talking to Canada, and from the snippets of conversation that reached Scotland's ears it seemed to have something to do with having annoying southern neighbours. And at the head of the table was England, trying his best to hide a smile as he took in the empty plates, the full glasses and his family, for once laughing and talking together like all the worries of the world had finally been forgotten.

It was nice, really, decided Scotland. He'd never admit it, but he loved family events and could get a little more sentimental than he'd like over the past. He could remember when he'd first met Australia, still a loud, overconfident little boy that England had fought hard to control, and wondered why he bothered. It had only occurred to him later to consider that maybe he reminded his brother of the other loud, overconfident little boy that he had failed to make part of the family. He remembered New Zealand, always with that ridiculous hair that curled up into horn-like shapes, as a tiny kid who had attached himself to Wales and never let go. He remembered Seychelles, always the pretty, lighthearted girl with constant daydreams and an unfaltering smile. There was Canada too, easy to forget and to ignore, never speaking up for himself but always there for you if you cared to notice him, and South Africa, never entirely responsive to England's lessons in etiquette, preferring to spend his time climbing trees and playing make-believe games outdoors.

And India, of course, but she hadn't grown up in their house. She was always the beautiful young woman sitting next to him, she was always determined and driven but quietly softhearted, and she _would never agree to go out with him_!

"Come on," he said, turning his smile on her. "Dinnae listen ter what _he_ says-" he jerked a finger towards England, "-I'm nae all bad. Go on, give me a chance."

"I've been turning you down for centuries," she sighed, folding her arms and refusing to look at him. "What makes you think I'll say yes this time?"

That was a good question. Scotland gave it the thought it deserved. "Um... because I'll be an independent nation too soon and we can form an alliance?"

She actually did turn to face him this time. _Victory! _"What? You're really seceding?" And before he could stop her, she called up the table, "England, is this true?"

"Is what true?"

"That Scotland's going to become independent."

England frowned at him in confusion; Scotland grimaced inwardly but decided to stand his ground. "Of course not. I take care of all his economics and external affairs. He wouldn't know how."

"Hey! I would! Ye just never give me the chance ter prove it!"

"I've given you plenty of chances and you've blown them all. The last time I left you in charge of this house - and Wales and Northern Ireland were even there to help you - you threw a party and ended up passed out on the front lawn while the house was almost completely destroyed."

India's head snapped back to Scotland, waiting for him to continue the verbal game of ping pong. He felt heat rising up his neck and snapped back, "I just wanted ter meet some other countries fer once! Maybe I wouldnae have done it if ye let me actually represent myself!"

"Maybe I'd let you represent yourself if you weren't so immature! Why would you even want to leave this house anyway? I give you everything you need here."

The rest of the table had stopped talking now and was staring at the heated exchange going on between the two brothers. Wales had paused in discussing the benefits of Welsh White Mountain wool versus Merino wool with New Zealand, Australia's last joke had died in his throat, Northern Ireland and Canada had temporarily forgotten about their siblings and even Seychelles's smile had faded slightly. Neither Scotland nor England noticed the change in atmosphere.

"Have ye considered that I dinnae need ter be given everythin' by ye? That maybe I'd rather have some sort of _pride _instead of relyin' on ye all the time? Ye _smother _us, England. We dinnae need ye as much as ye think we dae, ye ken!"

"Of course you do. You wouldn't have asked me for a union if you didn't need someone to tie your shoelaces and clean up your messes."

Scotland's face was fully red now, his voice loud enough to make Wales and Canada flinch. "I dinnae need any of that! I asked ye fer a union _centuries _ago - I've changed since then! And I was fine fer centuries before I came tae live with ye!"

England was trying very hard not to shout and failing miserably. "I suppose you were, weren't you? Hiding up in your frozen mountains while I dealt with all the invaders! People didn't leave you alone because they were scared of you, it was because you're an insufferable git who can't admit that no-one likes him! Face it, you're a coward!"

Scotland had been called many things in his life. 'Git' was England's standard nickname for him, so he was used to that. He'd been called 'thick', 'barbarian', 'tosser', and he suspected he'd had a whole variety of insults thrown at him in Welsh and Gaelic. He took them standing up and gave as good as he got. But if England was going to insinuate that he, Scotland, Alba, a proud nation with a long history of fierce, brave warriors, was a coward, then he was going to show him just how fearless he could be.

"A coward?" he said, laughing quietly, his vision practically red from all the blood pumping through his brain. He was sick of this. He was sick of being treated like an inferior, of being put down and insulted and treated like a wayward child. "Nae. Ye're the coward, Albion. All of this - yer Empire, yer Commonwealth, everyone here - is because ye're so. Damn. _Scared._"

"I don't know what you-"

"Dae ye remember when France invaded ye? Centuries ago noo, that was. Ye were only little back then. I forget, hoo many people have ye had tryin' ter conquer ye? Ye've had Rome, Denmark and who-knows-who-else all runnin' aroond, never quite strong enough tae beat ye but never weak enough for ye to beat them. But France did it, didnae he? I remember seein' ye then, sittin' in the grass and tryin' yer best tae memorise French words and lookin' like the saddest, most defeated thing I've ever seen."

"I was never-"

"So then," Scotland raised his voice, interrupting him, "ye came oot o' the Dark Ages different tae us. All yer French and Danish and Latin and German made ye hardly even Celtic anymore and ye knew it. Ye'd lost yer language and yer culture and ye had nothin' on us. So ye worked yer arse off makin' yerself strong and powerful because ye'd sworn tae yerself - dinnae deny it! - that ye were never goin' tae be conquered again. And that's why _they're_ here!" He glowered around at the silent Commonwealth, all watching his tirade with wide eyes and terrified faces. "Because the only way ye could be sure ye'd stay independent was by forcin' others tae work fer ye. By grabbin' power wherever ye went, makin' yerself stronger and stronger and stronger."

It was Northern Ireland who spoke next, getting his words in quickly before Scotland could get his momentum back up again. "I think it's a bit unfair to say that-"

"Unfair?" Scotland really laughed now, staring incredulously at Ireland. "_Ye_ think it's unfair? Ye're missin' the point. He was so desperate tae build himself up that he forgot the place he was tryin' tae protect in the first place. He was so busy thinkin' aboot Africa and China and India that he barely even _noticed _ye and Sooth _starvin' tae death_."

Northern Ireland's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, any words he might've been planning to say now lodged in his throat.

"And then he let ye all go and started suckin' up to America, because noo he was the strong one and ye couldnae keep up. And ye're all still here!" he said, looking back around at the Commonwealth. "Ye're still listenin' tae him like he's nae just a washed-up relic past his glory days. And _that_," he spat, shooting the word up the table at England like a bullet, "is why I want tae secede, _Albion_. Because I dinnae want tae stick aroond just because it makes _ye_ feel like people _like _ye! Because it makes ye feel safe."

He breathed out, long and slow, all the words he needed to say now said except for one last sentence. "And ye call _me _a coward."

There was a long silence. Scotland was strangely out of breath, feeling more like he'd just run a marathon than shout at his little brother. Everyone was pale and shocked, but no-one compared to England. Every ounce of colour had drained from his usually moderately pale face and he was just staring at Scotland as though he was some sort of horrifying hallucination. And then, just as Wales got up the nerve to choke out, "England..." he pushed back his chair, got to his feet and left the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a room full of the most silent silence Scotland had ever heard in his life.

Wales opened his mouth again but Northern Ireland beat him to it. "You absolute _eejit._"

Everyone's eyes were on Scotland now. He looked around at them, feeling vaguely uncomfortable all of a sudden. "What? Just because I figured oot the truth dinnae mean that-"

"We all know the truth, Scotland! I know, Wales knows... hell, even South knows! But we had the tact to keep it quiet! You didn't need to shout it at him right in front of our entire Commonwealth!"

"Oh, come on. It's never been our Commonwealth. It was always his."

"That makes it worse. Go and apologise to him right now!"

"Nae! Why should I? All I did was tell the truth!"

"Because," said Wales, joining in now, "it's not the truth. Maybe it was at one point, but not any more."

"Ye're kiddin' me, it's still-"

"No, it's not. Do you remember World War Two, Scotland? The Blitz?"

Of course he did. That time hadn't been easy for any of them, but it was England who had been reduced to a bleeding wreck, not even able to stand up on his own let alone go out and help his people, as bomb after bomb rained down on London. "I dinnae see hoo that has anythin' ter dae with-"

"It has everything to do with it. That was when he was forced to remember the Isles again. His own people were so brave and so stubborn in defending him, refusing to give him up to Germany even though it looked for a bit like we couldn't possibly win, that he remembered what he'd been fighting for. That's why he let everyone get their independence back after the end of the war rather than try to keep them by force, like Portugal did, remember?"

"What we're trying to say," said Ireland, "is that England can be a tosser sometimes, but he's not evil. He forgot about us but he forgot about himself too. Now that he's remembered, Wales and I have the maturity to forgive him, take him back and refrain from pointing out every insecurity he's ever had in front of his entire former Empire."

Scotland stared down at his empty plate, a peculiar feeling squirming in his stomach, then brought his eyes up to meet the accusing glares of his little brothers. He mumbled something under his breath.

"Excuse me?" asked Ireland.

"I didnae mean tae... I mean, I just... Sorry."

"Why are you apologising to us? Go and find your brother. Now!"

Scotland jumped to his feet and followed Ireland's order without question, hurrying from the room and hearing the quiet babble of talk resume as he left. Probably wondering if he'd actually get the guts to apologise, or if England had thrown himself out of a window yet. He ignored them, opening doors and poking his head into rooms as he searched for his brother.

He found him in the cupboard under the stairs, the same one that he'd locked them in so many times, sitting on a box and staring blankly at the opposite wall. He didn't even look up as Scotland came in and slowly shut the door behind him, wondering what to do next.

"Um..." he said wisely, taking a seat on a sturdy-looking plastic bucket. "I just came tae... I knoo that... well... sorry." _There. I said it._

England looked up as if he'd only just noticed him there. "What for?"

"Fer bein' such an arse back there."

"Don't be sorry. You were only telling the truth."

And then he was silent again, just staring off into space with that blank, empty look in his eyes that scared Scotland more than blazing anger. He bit his lip. "Are ye okay?"

"I'm fine. You get back out there. A party needs a good host. I'm not being very hospitable at the moment, am I? Just sitting here... so rude..."

_Ye gods, I think I broke him._

"...And after all, I do want them as my friends. Not my colonies, my friends... Why don't I want colonies any more, Scotland? After the war, the Empire just collapsed and I didn't even really care... Why was that?"

Scotland thought about this. "I reckon it's 'cause ye didnae need them any more. Ye colonised and conquered 'cause ye wanted tae get stronger, but then ye realised that ye had yer people and ye had us and ye didnae need more than that."

England listened quietly, letting his words sink in and resonate with the tangled mess of age-old feelings spinning incomprehensible webs through his brain. The sound was calming. He raised his head to look at his older brother. "You can secede if you want, Scotland. I won't try to stop you."

"Secede? Nah. Maybe someday, but I think I like it better here fer noo. I'd get pure dead bored on my own."

England smiled weakly, and for a moment Scotland saw a flicker of emotion return to his eyes. Relief washed over him; he might've damaged him, but not irreparably. "Glad to hear it. This house would be a lot less interesting without you around."

Scotland knew full well he'd never have said that under normal circumstances, but that didn't make him grin at his brother any less. "Come on," he said, standing up and holding a hand out to help him up off his box. "Let's get back to the party. They'll be wondering where we are."

England looked at his hand, then ignored it completely and got to his feet by himself. "Yes, that's a good idea. We wouldn't want to worry them."

Scotland watched him leave, then stepped out of the cupboard and closed the door behind him. England was annoying, bossy and far too proud, but then Scotland never knew when to stop telling the truth. They all had their flaws. But, after all this time, his little brother was finally learning to stand up on his own, and maybe someday Scotland would too.


	12. Symptoms of Withdrawal

**A/N: Sorry for the massive gap! It's exam time at school at the moment and science has the most difficult test I've ever encountered in all my years of high school. If I had any dreams of being a world-famous physicist I'd be kissing them goodbye right now. But I didn't, so that's okay. ^_^ Anyway, exams are mostly over now (just Japanese to go - I want to go back in time and sentence the person who invented kanji to death by memorisation of a zillion different tiny little formations of lines) so I should be able to post more regularly now. I've also got a one-shot planned for Halloween, so look out for that one.**

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><p>Snow was relatively normal in the United Kingdom. Scotland was easily used to it and even the more southerly nations such as England and Wales usually dealt with it around February. It missed Christmas nearly every single year as a matter of policy, of course, but people still got disproportionately excited when roads were closed, school was cancelled and everyone got to spend a day sledding and having snowball fights. However, snow could often end up being more trouble than it was worth. When the weatherman predicted record amounts that night, possibly leaving people unable to open their front doors, the brothers of the United Kingdom knew that preparations had to be made. Scotland was sent out into the raging blizzard to head to the nearest Tesco and stock up on food and other necessities. All would be well.<p>

If you'd told Wales and Northern Ireland that the next day would see them locked in the upstairs loo, traumatised and fearing for their lives, they would have laughed at you.

It all started the next morning. Northern Ireland was up first, as usual, and set about making breakfast. Bacon, eggs, baked beans, eggy bread (_not _French toast), all the regular things. Scotland had done remarkably well, considering last time they let him tackle the shopping on his own they'd ended up with what Ireland had preferred not to identify any further than 'glop'. He did spot a haggis at the back of the fridge and a few cans of Irn-Bru on the shelves, but that could be overlooked.

Wales was up next, still wearing his pyjamas and sheep slippers. "Did you see?" He ran to the window and almost climbed up onto the counter in his excitement. "Look, Ireland! We're snowed in! How cool is that?"

Wales was right; the entire house was surrounded by a good few feet of snow and pushing on the door was as useless as trying to convince Scotland to wear trousers. But neither of them were particularly worried about this. It was still snowing, but not quite as heavily as it had been the day before and besides, they had more than enough to keep them going until the snow melted.

It wasn't until England came downstairs that the problem was discovered.

"Brilliant," he said, spotting the steaming plates. "Thanks Ireland. Stick the kettle on, would you? I'm dying for a cup of tea."

Ireland did so. It was unwise to withhold England's tea; they had discovered that years ago and had vowed never to repeat the mistake again. Even thinking about it was enough to give any of them highly disturbing flashbacks. The kettle finished boiling; Ireland grabbed a mug from the cupboard, popped the lid off the tin and groped around inside it for a teabag.

It was empty.

"Scotland!" Scotland raised his head from his arms, still half-asleep at the counter. "Did you get teabags from Tesco yesterday?"

Scotland gazed blearily at him for a moment, his mind sluggishly working to comprehend the words his ears had just picked up, then he shot upright and his eyes snapped open in horror.

Icy chills gripped Ireland's spine. Wales nearly toppled off the kitchen counter he'd been watching the snow from. Scotland's mouth opened and closed in a series of rapid, silent apologies.

"I didnae... I dunnae ken... Can we still open the door? Maybe Tesco's still open? We could make some kind o' batterin' ram-"

"Oh, is there none left?" England seemed entirely unconcerned. "Don't worry about it, then. I'll be fine." And with that, he continued eating his breakfast without a care in the world.

They stared at him, slack-jawed. Northern Ireland was not relieved. As far as he was concerned, the storm had far from been averted. This was just the calm, the rising, swelling silence right before your house gets blown down. Still... it was best not to act too worried, right? Maybe England really had changed since... _last time_. Ireland shivered, forcing the images from his mind. Yes, it was definitely best to just ignore it. Distract him somehow. Keep his mind off it.

"I think we've got some _Top Gear _recorded," he said quickly, jumping to his feet. "There's that new special out now, isn't there? We should watch that! Watch them all!"

"Okay," said England. He put his plate in the dishwasher and Wales and Scotland practically tripped over each other in their hurry to turn on the telly. "Guys, honestly," he laughed, watching their panic with untroubled amusement. "I survived the Blitz; I can survive a day without tea."

But after two episodes of _Top Gear_, England was starting to show some alarming symptoms of withdrawal.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Wales, watching his brother concernedly as the closing theme played.

"I'm fine. Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? Never been finer," said England very fast, reaching for the remote with violently shaking hands. He aimed it at the telly and, after several attempts, managed to get his thumb to land on the right button to bring up the Sky menu.

Scotland, still suffering from a lingering sense of guilt, ignored his protests and took the remote off him. He started the next episode and put it back down on the coffee table.

"_No_!" They all jumped; England snatched the remote off the table and carefully replaced it in the bottom left hand corner, perfectly parallel to the sides and facing the telly. "There. Right there. Perfect. That's where it goes. See? Okay." He kept watching, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the screen, completely unaware of his brothers all staring at him in alarm.

"Um... Scotland, Wales, can I talk to you outside for a moment?" said Ireland slowly. "I need to... um... show you something..."

He needn't have bothered with the excuse. England was still gazing at the telly like it was the only thing that existed any more and didn't even move as the room steadily emptied around him. Once the three of them were safely outside the living room, every word began to overflow like a tsunami.

"I'm so sorry, I didnae mean ter-"

"This is insane, we can't keep-"

"What if he dies? Or turns psychotic? Or-"

"Everyone shut up!" Northern Ireland closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them and looked directly at Scotland. "You're the best at dealing with snow. We are stuck in a house with a potential maniac here; we need to get tea or face the consequences. Remember what happened last time?" Wales whimpered softly. "Exactly."

"What aboot the windaes?" suggested Scotland. "If we could find one that isnae frozen shut, I could get oot and gae from there."

"I think the one in the kitchen's open," said Wales. "I nearly slid it back a bit by accident when I was looking out of it at breakfast."

As Scotland ran off down the hall to try and force his way out of the kitchen window in desperate search of tea, Wales and Ireland looked at each other, steeled themselves, and went back into the living room.

"What the hell was that for?" England's head snapped towards them as they shut the door behind them in a way that made Wales edge ever so slightly behind Ireland.

"What was what for?"

"Slamming the door like that! Stop making so much noise!" The telly had been turned off now. England had his knees tucked into his chest and was rocking backwards and forwards very fast, glaring at them from behind his fringe with wide, haunted eyes. "You're so loud. All the bloody time, noise! Why must you be so bloody loud? Shut up!"

"I didn't say anyth-"

"SHUT UP!" But England wasn't talking to them any more, Ireland realised. He was shaking his head as if to dislodge a large amount of water from his ears, pausing, listening, then shaking his head even more violently than before. "Go away! Be quiet! Why can't you give me some bloody peace and quiet? I can't hear myself think!"

"Ireland," said Wales quietly, "what's wrong with him? Is he going to-"

"SHUT UP!" shouted England again. "Shut up shut up shut up! Stop making noise! Stop making... stop making..." He stared up at them, the colour rapidly draining from his face. "Oh dear God. They're coming."

"Who's coming?"

"THEM!" he yelled, launching himself from the couch and pulling the curtains closed with violently shaking hands. "Ireland, Wales, lock the doors! They'll see us!"

"We're snowed in!" said Ireland, his face a mixture of fear and disbelief. "And who's 'them'?"

"_Them_," said England, as though that explained everything. Satisfied that they were fully locked in - a thought which frightened rather than comforted the two nations standing by the door - he returned to the couch and resumed his rocking. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, shaking madly and soaked with sweat.

"England..." Wales was approaching him now, hesitantly reaching out to pat him on the back. "Please calm down... Scotland's out finding tea, it'll all be okay-"

"Tea?" His head snapped back up again, wild hope in his eyes. "You have tea? Wales? Tell me!" He grabbed his little brother's collar and pulled him down until their noses were inches from each other. "Tea?"

"No!" Wales panicked, trying to disentangle England's fingers from his pyjama top. "No, I told you, Scotland's out getting some! I don't have any!"

"No tea..." England turned and glowered at Ireland, who swallowed. "There's never any tea, is there? No-one appreciates it like I do. They let it run out, they turn it into stupid _iced tea_, they throw it in harbours like ungrateful gits..." And then he had let go of Wales's collar and buried his face in his knees, his shoulders shaking. "You were always so naive, you fool!" he hissed to no-one in particular.

"England!" Wales went to wrap his arms around his brother, but Ireland pulled him back.

"No, don't touch him! He's hallucinating."

"T-there's no point in firing, is there?" England was staring at the wall again now, speaking to someone who wasn't there. "Damn it... why... damn..."

All the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped back against the couch, head in his hands, shoulders heaving with dry sobs. But just as Wales was about to give in to the temptation to run up and hug him, his eyes snapped open and he leapt to his feet, all traces of sadness gone. "What are you doing here, Frenchie?" he shouted, sounding so sure of himself that Ireland almost looked around for France. "It's too late for you, you know. You've lost that country witch you were relying on - you won't be able to hold on for long now. Orleans gave you false confidence, I've always said it."

"Ireland?" Wales asked quietly, tugging on his sleeve. "How long will Scotland be?"

"I don't know," said Ireland truthfully as England's demeanour began to change once again. He was more relaxed now, confident in his superiority rather than wildly aggressive and warlike. It was a persona Ireland recognised; he gulped.

"So you dare to show your face here again, Spaniard?" drawled England. "Even after what I did to your armada? You can't fight me, you know. I'll always beat you. They don't sing 'Britannia rules the waves' for nothing." He paused, listening to something no-one else could hear, then his face twisted into a snarl. "You never can admit defeat, can you? Even when it's your own country at stake. How about this? A duel, one on one. You versus me. We'll settle this once and for all." And, without warning, he had grabbed a poker from beside the fireplace and lunged forwards.

"England!" shouted Ireland, darting forwards to grab his arm. Who knew what mess he could make swinging that thing around? "England, stop it! Calm down!" Ireland and Wales hung onto him as he struggled, shouting threats at his imaginary Spain, until his rage subsided and he stopped fighting. "That's right. Calm. Just breathe. Scotland will be back soon with your tea."

"Tea?" England's head snapped around again, his eyes wide. "I had tea once... Why is the tea always gone? Wait... You have it! GIVE IT TO ME!"

No matter how tough Wales and Northern Ireland could be, no matter what they had endured and how much faith they had in themselves and their people, when they saw a pirate-minded, tea-deprived, wild-eyed, psychotic England lunging at them with an iron poker swinging through the air like a wrecking ball, they ran.

Slamming the door behind them did little to stop him; his footsteps and battlecries were behind them as they raced down the hall and up the stairs, screaming at the top of their lungs, hearts pounding in their throats. Ireland shot through the first door he could see - the upstairs loo - held it open just long enough for Wales to hurtle past and slammed it shut, turning the lock and leaning all his weight against it. It shook behind him as blow after blow rained down on the sturdy wood, incoherent shrieks only slightly muffled as England suffered a complete psychological breakdown inches away from them.

"We're going to die..." moaned Wales as the door shook on its hinges. Ireland just stared grimly ahead, feet planted firmly on the floor.

A moment of quiet, then a loud splintering sound; Ireland and Wales looked down to see the poker protruding from the wooden door in the tiny space between them. Wales screamed, Ireland went white, screwed his eyes shut and started muttering prayers rapidly under his breath. The poker was pulled from the door and smashed against it again and again, followed by what felt like a shoulder as England hurled his entire body weight against the door, shaking it on its hinges and sending the two nations barricaded inside the loo staggering forwards.

"Hello?" came a voice from downstairs, echoing through the house like the words of an angel of deliverance. "I'm back! I foond tea!"

There was a long silence, then footsteps retreated from the door and hurtled down the stairs so fast Ireland was amazed he didn't trip and break his neck. Cautiously, tentatively, he unlocked the door and opened it a crack. England was gone. Still shaking as badly as he had been, Ireland clutched the banister for support as they made their way slowly downstairs. A few vases had been smashed, a few pictures knocked from the wall, all evidence of either their retreat upstairs or England's mad fervour to get to the new source of tea. But Ireland barely noticed.

They found their two older brothers in the kitchen - Scotland had climbed back in through the window and was still covered in snow. He was looking mildly shellshocked as he stared down at the lump on the floor. The lump, upon closer inspection, was England, curled up in a ball with a bulk pack of teabags clutched tightly to his chest. His eyes were closed in a state of comatose bliss. Wales threw himself on Scotland and hugged him tightly, almost sobbing into his shoulder. Ireland had to restrain himself from doing the same. In that moment, they were sure they owed Scotland and his impeccable timing their lives.

"Sorry I took so long," he said. "I went tae Tesco, but it wasnae open 'cause o' the weather, so I had to gae lookin' fer a shop and it wasnae easy with all the snow aroond, I can tell ye. I ended up findin' this warehoose that wasnae _too _closed, but they only sold this kind, and only in these great bulk packets. It's nae his favourite kind, but I thought it'd dae."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," said Ireland, looking down at England, who was now unconsciously sucking the corner of the pack. He decided not to question exactly what '_too _closed' meant - they were alive, and that was what mattered. England looked comatose enough... Ireland bent down and attempted to gently disentangle the bag from his grip. England's eyes didn't open and he didn't regain consciousness, but the hiss that ripped its way through the air was terrifying enough to make all three of them jump backwards in fright.

Eventually, Wales managed to sneak a teabag from the corner of the packet without shifting it in his grip and being detected as an enemy to be mercilessly destroyed. Scotland picked him up, still being careful not to touch the bag, and took him back to the couch in the living room. And Ireland, watching his limp, drooling brother be carried from the kitchen, was able to breathe a sigh of the kind of deep, soulful relief that comes when you have narrowly avoided death and now see your remaining life stretched endlessly before you, as he pressed the plastic button and heard the most beautiful sound in the world:

The sound of a boiling kettle.

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><p><strong>AN: I wrote this while drinking tea. ^_^ It's freaking life-juice, people!**


	13. Halloween

**If you thought I was planning to let the endless potential for mayhem presented by Halloween go to waste, I'm sorry to say that you were mistaken. ^_^ And isn't it just a wonderfully spooky coincidence that my Halloween one-shot happens to be chapter thirteen?**

**So here, at the request of the ever-awesome Jenica, is a British Isles Halloween special. Let me know what you think!**

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><p>"I'm still not sure if it's okay to wear this," said England, frowning down at his costume. "It's not very scary, is it?"<p>

"The invitation said ye didnae have ter be scary." Scotland held it up to reread the near-unintelligible scrawl across the black and orange paper. "I dinnae think America's Halloween is that similar ter ours. But ye'll be fine, everyone loves Peter Pan."

"I'm not Peter Pan! I'm Robin Hood! You should know him, he's a famous character in English folklore! At least I've put more effort into my costume than you."

"I put loads of effort into this!"

"You splashed blue paint on yourself. That doesn't count as effort. Who are you supposed to be, anyway?"

"I'm William Wallace from _Braveheart_. He's a famous _Scottish_ character, ye ken, and he was actually _real_."

"Robin Hood was real! I met him! He-"

England was interrupted by Wales, who skipped through into the front room wearing a brown jacket and bow tie and turned to face the door with his arms folded in exasperation. "Ireland, stop hiding! You look fine!"

"Wales, it's a fancy dress party," explained Scotland. "Ye're supposed ter wear a costume, not a suit."

"This is a costume!" he said indignantly. "I'm Doctor Who, can't you tell? And who are you supposed to be? A smurf?"

"I'm William Wallace! This is _warpaint_!"

Wales shrugged leant through the door, grabbing something just out of sight and trying to haul it past the doorframe. "Come... on! Trust me... they look... stupider... than you!"

Whatever Northern Ireland was holding onto, he seemed to lose his grip on it and stumbled reluctantly through the doorway. England and Scotland immediately tried their best to focus on images of the most sad and serious things they could come up with on such short notice; Ireland glared around at them, daring them to laugh. He was, unmistakably, a leprechaun. Scotland had no idea how Wales had managed to force him into that costume, but it had all been worth it just for that one glimpse of his younger brother in a lurid green waistcoat and top hat. Still, he wasn't about to risk laughing. He might be bigger than Ireland, but that expression promised a lifetime of pain and misery regardless of size to anyone who dared make fun of him.

Somehow, with much persuading, cajoling and bribing, they managed to get Northern Ireland out of the front door and into the car. They also got him to start speaking to them again by compromising and letting him leave his pot of gold behind. Nevertheless, it was a pure miracle that they managed to get him to leave the car and approach America's front door with them. By that point, they realised, he'd probably lost all hope of maintaining his dignity throughout the night and had just given up trying.

Music was already thumping inside the house as England rang the bell; the door was answered by America, who was wearing the most incomprehensible costume yet. He looked, to England's untrained eye, like a Texan with a fishbowl on his head.

"Hey guys! You made it! Come in, the party's already started!"

"What are ye supposed ter be?" asked Scotland, all pleasantries ignored.

"I'm a space cowboy!" said America proudly. "I couldn't decide whether I wanted to be a spaceman or a cowboy, so I just thought 'screw it, I'll be both'! Awesome, right?"

He seemed to take their speechlessness for agreement and ushered them inside, shutting the door behind them. The house was already crowded; they could make out virtually every country they knew somewhere around, all dressed up in a wild variety of costumes. Someone dressed entirely in black with two katanas strapped to their back looked suspiciously like Japan. Liechtenstein was a fairy and whatever Switzerland was, he looked like he could seriously injure anyone who tried to beat up on innocent fairies. Poland had come as Cinderella and had somehow managed to convince Lithuania to be Prince Charming. All in all, it was a strange sight.

"America! There you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

A girl pushed her way through the crowd and linked her arm though America's, smiling up at him in such a wide, charming way that it took them all a moment to notice that this particular girl was the Republic of Ireland.

There was a long, shocked pause, then Northern Ireland raised a finger to point at her costume, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. "You... what is... that's... THAT IS NOT WHAT A LEPRECHAUN LOOKS LIKE!"

She glanced down at her costume with an innocent look of confusion on her face. "What do you mean?"

"You should know better! You've _seen _them! I can't believe you'd be so factually inaccurate!"

Scotland gave him a sideways look. "Seriously? That's the only problem ye have with it?"

"Aren't you cold?" asked Wales.

"No, not particula- I mean yes. Yes, I am a bit chilly, actually." She looked up expectantly at America, who looked back blankly. "I am cold," she said again, her voice layered with meaning, and he finally got it.

"Oh! Right! Would you like my jacket, Ireland?"

"Thank you, America! You're so thoughtful."

"If you were going to come out in public like... like _that_," said England through gritted teeth, "you should've brought your own jacket. You live in the British Isles, for God's sake! You should know that!"

"It's the _Northwest European Archipelago_, thank you very much," she said. "And I will not hear that from a guy wearing tights."

"They're _leggings_!"

Apparently oblivious to his outrage, she leant against America as though her four brothers were not right in front of them and looked back up at him, her eyelashes fluttering so rapidly they must've been imparing her vision. "This is boring. I feel like dancing."

"Yeah, me too," said America. He was smiling at her in an unsure sort of way that looked as though he considered what was going on an extremely surprising yet deeply thrilling situation that he didn't want to get too used to in case it turned out to be some kind of trick.

Another pause, in which the next song began to thump through the speakers. "Ooh, I love this song!" said South, then smiled expectantly at him.

"Me too!"

South sighed. "America, _I feel like dancing_."

And then, once again, the realisation dawned on him. "Ireland, would you like to dance with me?"

"Oh!" Her eyes widened in fake surprise. "Wow! Yes, I'd love to!"

The United Kingdom watched as he led her away towards the dancefloor in various states of outrage. Northern Ireland looked like he was about to go into shock and might need a defibrillator, or at the very least a cup of tea, to revive him. England was watching them go in disbelief, as though trying to work out how someone related to him could be so shamelessly immodest. Scotland was caught between wanting to congratulate her for her nerve or punch every guy in the room for looking at her. Wales was too preoccupied with keeping Northern Ireland upright to worry much about his older sister.

All in all, it was not their favourite Halloween ever. The British are not famous for their dancing talent or relaxed, outgoing personalities and, true to form, the four of them ended up spending most of the evening hanging around by the refreshments table, which was stocked with piles of brightly coloured and completely unappetising cakes and biscuits. Despite claiming loudly that she wanted to get away from them, South seemed to be wherever they were, always dragging America behind her. She would laugh too loudly at whatever he said, even if it wasn't supposed to be funny, hang off him like she could barely stand on her own and throw hidden glances towards her brothers every now and then just to make sure they were watching. If they weren't, she would just tow America over to a place more obviously within their line of sight and begin anew.

It was worse than Northern Ireland had imagined. He hadn't been keen on the idea of a party in the first place, and that was when he hadn't known it would involve watching his twin sister behave like this in public. England was even grumpier now than he had been at the start - Italy had complimented him on his excellent Peter Pan costume and been treated to another rant about how Robin Hood was a famous English folklore character and had nothing to do with fairies, Indians or magical faraway lands. Scotland had not punched anyone yet, although plenty of people had asked how he managed to get blue paint all over himself. Wales was quite pleased with himself for being the only one with an unquestioned costume, but Ireland privately thought that that was probably because no-one but he would recognise a jacket and bow-tie as the official attire of a Time Lord and probably all just thought he'd mistaken the dress code.

After Denmark had sidled past and made a rather impolite remark about the relative attractiveness of their sister to themselves, they decided to write off Halloween this year as a disaster and forget about it as soon as possible. Excusing themselves and making their way quietly towards the front door - their host had started dancing with their sister again and was therefore unavailable for thanking - they slipped out onto the driveway and breathed collective sighs of relief.

"I say we just make a Jack o' Lantern next year and be done with it," muttered England darkly, to general agreement.

When they were safely driving down the road away from America's house, Northern Ireland at the wheel (he was the most likely to pass a breath test if they were pulled over), true feelings began to spill over, and none of them were pretty.

"I can't believe her," hissed England, his knuckles white as he gripped the dashboard. "She's giving the British Isles a bad name, prancing around like that! I thought she hated America! She did it just to annoy us, I know she did!"

"Of course she did," said Scotland, as though this was a given. "Though I think it was mainly ter annoy ye, actually."

England's next rant was interrupted by Northern Ireland's ringtone. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he jammed it into the hands-free and pressed the button to pick up. "Hello?"

South's frantic voice came out of the phone. "Thuaidh, dhíth orm do chabhair, tá mé i bhfostú-"

Ireland gritted his teeth. "Speak English."

"Fine. North, I need your help, I'm stuck in America's bathroom and he won't go away! Could you come and rescue me somehow? Distract him while I sneak out? Oh, and for the love of God, please don't tell England."

"Too late; you're on speaker."

A string of Irish curses burst from the phone. Only Northern Ireland understood them, but his wincing told them all they needed to know.

"Evening, Republic of Ireland," said England, suddenly a lot more cheerful.

There was a long silence as South attempted to control herself, broken only by a sound remarkably like the snapping of a toothbrush. "Evening, England," she said, her pleasantries strained. She was clearly prepared to be polite if it meant getting out of that bathroom, but it wasn't going to be easy for her.

"Why the sudden change of heart?" asked Northern Ireland. "You were all over him before. It was sickening."

"You know I was only doing that to annoy you!" she hissed. "But he's too thick to see that and now he's waiting for me to come out!"

A voice, distant and muffled but still clearly American, drifted softly from the phone, making them all strain to her it. "Ireland, are you okay? You've been in there a while."

"Um... yeah, I'm fine!" South's voice was muffled now too - she was holding the phone away from her face to shout back. "I just... er... I just have explosive diarrhoeia!"

"You're so funny, Ireland!" laughed America. "Don't be long, we're playing Seven Minutes in Heaven next!"

Then her voice was clear again, speaking fast and urgently. "Okay, I'm sorry. I was wrong. I was working against my own interests for petty revenge. And I wanted to see that look you get when you're angry, England, because it's _hilarious_. No, wait!" She spoke up, interrupting his protests. "I'm sorry. Just please, _please_ get me out of here! I'll do anything you want!"

Everyone looked at each other, then at England. He was the decision-maker here and always had been. The fact that he was highly biased and motivated as much by revenge as South had been made no difference; he organised them, he planned and set plans into motion, and no-one was going anywhere without him. He considered the phone for a few seconds, then sat back in his seat, letting a wide smile creep lazily across his face. "Grovel."

"What?"

"Grovel. You said you'd do anything I want, and I want you to grovel."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm perfectly serious. Do you want me to help you or not?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then grovel. Go on, I'm waiting."

Another toothbrush snapped, barely audible above South's heavy breathing. Then she spoke, forcing the words out past her dignity and better judgement. "Please come and get me."

"You'll have to do better than that."

"Please. _Please_. I will be eternally grateful. Well, maybe not eternally, but-"

"You're not very good at this, are you?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She was quiet for a moment; they could almost hear her swallowing her pride. "Okay, fine. Please help me, oh dear sweet brother, and I will be forever in your debt."

"And?"

"And you are a great nation and a wonderful person and I should consider myself lucky to have one as wonderful as you to come to my aid."

"Okay, that's good enough," said England, still smiling all over his face in triumph. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland were all staring slack-jawed at him; none of them had ever heard South say anything even vaguely resembling words like that and they'd never thought they ever would, especially not to England. They didn't change anything, of course - she was saying them through gritted teeth and obviously hating herself for it - but it was still a memorable phenomenon. "We could turn around and get you, but I have a better way."

"What's that?"

"If you go to the window by the shower-"

"I tried that one, it's locked."

"I know, but there's a hole in the base of the frame. If you stick your finger through it and push it slightly to the right, you can shift the latch out of place and get the window open."

There was a scuffling noise, then, "I think I've found it, but the latch won't move!"

"You might need to blow some dust out of there."

Static came through the speakers as South blew as hard as she could, then there was another moment of quiet as she worked on the latch. "Yes! It's open! Thank you so much!"

"Don't mention it. Just make sure you close it behind you or the bathroom gets moths in it. And you're two storeys up, remember, so be careful."

"I will. Thank you, tha- wait, how do you know all this?"

One by one, each of the other nations in the car realised what a good question this was and slowly turned to face their brother. England sighed. "I'll tell you which of the drainpipes is best for climbing down if you never ask me that question again."

Even after leaving a room full of national personifications dressed as a wild assortment of characters from fairytales, history and national folklore, Northern Ireland still considered that phone conversation the strangest thing he'd experienced all night. England and South working together just like the old days. Like they still considered each other family, after all they'd been through. Because despite everything, when you got rid of the empires and the rebellions and the years of feuding and really started thinking about it, they weren't that different after all. If England had been in South's situation, Ireland knew he'd do something similar to what she had. As much as they tried to deny it, they were related by history, geography and blood, and that had to count for something, even if that thing was nothing more than helping the other out of America's bathroom window to escape a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

There were some things you couldn't leave even your worst enemy to face by herself. Especially not your sister.

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><p><strong>Oh, USUK... Even if I don't particularly ship it, it still raises its head in the most unlikely situations. Also, the Republic of Ireland is made of epic win. Just had to say that. ^_^<strong>

**A note to the people desperately awaiting each new With Brothers Like These installment (yes, all one of you): NaNoWriMo is starting tomorrow and I won't have a whole lot of time to write side-projects. Never fear, I'm far from abandoning this, but if the new one-shots don't come as regularly as they usually do then that's why. I'll try and get as many written as possible and everything should return to normal come December.**


	14. Bonfire Night

**A/N: Sorry for the lateness! I was supposed to post this for Bonfire Night but then a million things happened and I didn't end up writing it and now NaNoWriMo is kicking my arse and I'm a failure at life. But better late than never, right? Right?**

**Anyway, I was explaining Bonfire Night to my friend (they don't have it in Australia) and I suddenly realised how terrible it was. "Well, there was this guy who tried to blow up Parliament, so we killed him gruesomely in public. And now we still do it. All of us. Every year... We aren't all murdering psychopaths, I swear!" We really aren't. We just enjoy burning scarecrows. Don't try and tell me you wouldn't.**

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><p><em>Hey Britain, why won't Ireland talk to me?<em>

England, or, as he was known at international meetings like these, the United Kingdom, looked down at the crumpled note that had just been stuffed into his hand and sighed. Halfway across the room, America was trying to make eye contact with him. Judging from the _'__Top_ _Secret!_ _Pass_ _to_ _Britain!__' _written on one side, he had just passed it down the entire row of countries. England's eyes found those of his former colony and he shrugged, forcing an apologetic look onto his face.

_No __idea_, he wrote, his own neat handwriting contrasting with America's chicken scratch. _She_ _doesn__'__t_ _talk_ _to_ _me_ _either._

As the note made its way back down the row to America's impatiently waiting hands, England scanned the room until he found the Republic of Ireland. She was concentrating hard on Germany's speech, making notes and squinting at his ridiculously dull Powerpoint. His presentation concerned her more than most; her economy had been going downhill fast recently and Greece was already in major trouble with the rest of Europe; she didn't want to be next. Somewhere at the back of his mind, England knew he should be paying more attention. He may not be part of the Eurozone, but he was strongly connected to it and if Europe went down then he would be in serious trouble. He just wished that this emergency economic meeting hadn't been called on Bonfire Night.

He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. If this meeting didn't finish soon then it'd be pitch black by the time he got home. As it was, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland had probably already finished the bonfire, and he didn't trust Scotland not to set the fireworks off without him.

"England, are you okay?" asked Japan. Their seats were right next to each other. England had been thankful for that; out of everyone in this room, Japan was one of the few people he could stand.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, wishing Germany would stop talking about interest rates and finish up. "It's just one of my national holidays tonight and I don't want to miss it."

"Really? Which one?"

"Bonfire Night."

"I... do not believe I have heard of that one before. I apologise."

"Don't be sorry, it's not very well-known. In the seventeenth century, this man called Guy Fawkes tried to blow up my Parliament, but he was found and arrested and everyone was okay. So we celebrate it every year on the fifth of November."

"That is fascinating, Britain-san," said Japan, his attention now focused completely on England. "If you do not mind me asking, how do you celebrate Bonfire Night?"

"Well, Guy Fawkes got executed as punishment," he said, slightly awkwardly. "So now, well, we make a scarecrow of him and, um... kill him again."

Japan frowned. "You mean every citizen of your country burns this Guy Fawkes-san every year? And you have a holiday based around it?"

"Um... yes." It didn't sound so great when Japan put it that way. "But it's a social occasion! Everyone gets together and sets off fireworks and eats toffee."

Japan turned back to his notes, muttering something about 'inscrutable foreigners', and England was left wondering why they made such a fuss about murdering Guy Fawkes over and over again. But, he realised, he didn't care. This was his holiday and they were not going to make him miss it just because some countries couldn't pay off their debts. As Germany's presentation dragged on and on, he began to tap his foot and click his pen over and over in impatience.

For some reason, his eyes wandered back to Ireland again. Even she looked bored now; she had stopped concentrating so hard and begun to scan the room just like him. Their eyes met, and she scowled at him. She still hadn't forgiven him for forcing her to grovel in return for instructions on how to escape from America's bathroom. The memory squeezed a tiny jolt of endorphins out of England's bored, agitated brain and he waved at her, grinning as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Her scowl deepened, and she began to scribble something on her notes.

England squinted at them, trying to get a good look. Was she taking notes? No, she wasn't looking at the presentation. Writing a message? Actually, it didn't look like she was writing at all. In fact, she seemed to be drawing. Drawing circles, actually. Alarm bells began to ring dully in the back of England's mind. Her pen changed its course, now drawing something that seemed suspiciously like a pentacle. Just as England's eyes widened in alarm, she raised her eyes and smiled maliciously at him. He shook his head and held his hands out, making apologetic gestures, but she just stuck her tongue out at him.

She kept drawing, ignoring his attempts to get her attention, and England's mind began to conjure up worse and worse images of what she could be doing. She was cursing him, wasn't she? She was going to curse him right in the middle of a world meeting and there was nothing he could do about it. If he cursed her first, he would take the blame. If he sat back and let her do it, who knew what could happen? Curses could be nasty things, no-one knew that better than he did! What if it ruined Bonfire Night? What if it ruined him? What if this curse was revenge for everything he'd ever done to her?

"Stop it!" He was on his feet before he realised what he was doing, pointing across the room at his sister. "I don't know what you're doing, but stop it!"

Germany looked up from his presentation. "Would you like to present an opinion, Britain?"

"I'd like you to stop her from cursing me!"

Ireland was looking around in surprise, her eyes wide and innocent. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb!" Everyone was staring at him now, but he didn't care. "You're putting a curse on me! Stop it!"

She frowned at him. "Why would I do that? We're in the middle of a meeting. I need to pay attention."

Japan, who had been sitting next to him, tugged on his sleeve, hissing, "England, sit down!"

"Britain," sighed Germany, "we are all aware that you and the Republic of Ireland do not have the most trusting relationship, but if you could save your wild accusations for after my presentation then I would be very grateful."

England opened his mouth to shout again, but then his brain registered the hundreds of eyes on him and the fact that not one of them seemed to be tackling Ireland to the ground and confiscating her notepaper. Finally, his own embarrassment and Japan's pleas to sit down and stop making a fool of himself got through and he took his seat again, hiding his face in his laptop.

The meeting finished half an hour later, and England spent the whole time trying to reassure himself that it hadn't been a curse. She was right: she did need to pay attention. She'd certainly been concentrating hard before she saw him. Her banks were in trouble and she never had been very good at arithmetic. _Yes,_ _of_ _course._ _You__'__re_ _being_ _paranoid._ _She_ _wouldn__'__t_ _put_ _a_ _curse_ _on_ _you_ _in_ _the_ _middle_ _of_ _a_ _meeting._

When the meeting was dismissed, he packed his things up as quickly as possible and bolted for the door. If he was quick now, he might still get home in time to celebrate Bonfire Night properly. For once in his life, he didn't queue. He pushed and shoved like all the others, and as a result was not last to leave. In his mad dash to squeeze through the doorway, he bumped shoulders with someone that his mind registered too late as the Republic of Ireland.

"By the way," she said, quietly enough for only him to hear, "that totally was a curse. Safe driving!" And, with a smile that sent shivers down his spine, she disappeared into the crowd and was gone.

England was left standing in the hallway, eyes wide, watching the countries make their way outside with panic gripping his mind. _I_ _knew_ _it! _He couldn't drive home now, something terrible would happen. But she wouldn't have put him in any danger, would she? Then he remembered her voice as she was forced to grovel down the phone, and he realised that she would do anything.

"America!" He ran towards the familiar dark blond head in the crowd. "America, can you give me a lift home?"

"What?" America frowned at him. "Why?"

"Ireland put a curse on me and I can't drive myself home or something terrible will happen," he said very fast, panic leaving no room for dignity.

"Oh, she wouldn't do that," he said.

"She would! She did! She told me!"

"She was just joking. She threatens to curse me all the time, but I know she's just joking," he laughed, clapping England on the shoulder. "See you, Britain."

Then he was gone, disappearing out through the door with everyone else, and England felt a sudden urge to curse him instead of Ireland. America saw his sister through rose-tinted glasses, he'd always known that, but he'd never expected it to actually endanger his life. He scanned the rapidly dwindling crowd, desperately looking for someone who would agree to give him a lift, and to his distress, saw no-one. _Damn_ _it!_ _Why_ _does_ _no-one_ _like_ _me? _His eyes found France and he was about to run towards him when he remembered what had happened - well, almost happened - last time the frog had given him a lift, and he thought better of it.

Which was why, as the last person drove away, England was left standing in the car park. It was dark now and he was all alone, and worry was starting to eat away at his mind. His car, a vintage Bentley, sat in a parking space only twenty feet away, mocking him. But he couldn't drive it. In the last half an hour, it had gone from beloved transport to death trap. Realising that he had no other options, England took out his mobile phone.

* * *

><p>"Ireland, you can't do that," sighed Wales, folding his arms and frowning his older brother.<p>

"Why not? It's traditional."

"No it's not. Since when was it traditional to burn your sister's flag? It's just disrespectful."

They had spent all afternoon building a bonfire in their garden, collecting sticks and chopping wood and piling it all up until it stood so tall Scotland had had to stand on a chair to put the scarecrow on top. Wales had been all ready to go inside and wait for England to get back when he noticed Northern Ireland adding something extra to the bonfire.

"Oh yeah, because she's so respectful to me."

"Come on, you know she loves you really."

"Of course I do. It's caused me no end of trouble."

"And you love her too," Wales soldiered on. "You pretend not to, but you do miss her sometimes."

Ireland ignored this, stubbornly tightening his bright orange scarf around his neck. "I've already agreed to do Bonfire Night in November instead of July because you all asked me to. Can't you at least let me do one thing my way?"

"Take that scarf off!" Wales tried to grab the end of it, but Ireland flipped it back over his shoulder and out of his reach.

"Make me!"

"Ye two, stop fighting." Scotland came out of the house, saw the flag and the scarf, and sighed. "Ireland, England'll flip oot when he sees that. Ye ken hoo he gets."

"Well he shouldn't," said Ireland. "It's in his favour, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but he's tryin' ter be diplomatic noo, isnae he? Just take it doon before he gets home."

Before Ireland could retort, the sound of bagpipes began to screech loudly through the garden. Scotland flipped open his mobile phone. "Yeah?"

"Scotland, it's me. I'm stuck in the car park at the meeting and I can't get home."

"Why? What's wrong?"

Wales and Northern Ireland looked up, suddenly worried. "What happened?" asked Wales, tugging on Scotland's sleeve. He ignored him.

"The Republic of Ireland put a curse on me and then told me to drive safely! I can't drive now! I need you to come and get me."

"Dinnae be stupid, England. She willnae really have cursed ye. She's just screwin' with ye head. Come home quickly, it's gettin' cold and we cannae wait forever."

"Scotland! Scotland, don't you dare hang up on-"

He flipped the phone shut and shoved it back into his kilt.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Northern Ireland.

"He thinks Sooth's cursed him fer some reason," shrugged Scotland. "Come on, let's get the fireworks ready."

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><p>An hour later, England sat on the pavement and watched sadly as his Bentley was towed away. He had only paid for four hours' parking and had spent his last pound on a cup of tea from a dodgy machine before the meeting had started. It was starting to get cold and his business suit wasn't designed for November nights. He would've taken refuge inside the meeting hall, but it had been locked up half an hour ago. All he could do was shiver on the concrete and call Scotland every ten minutes, hoping that his brother would finally decide to humour him and pick up.<p>

The sound of an engine reached his ears, distant and far away. At first he thought it was just one of the cars that were reasonably infrequent on this road at this time of night, but then it was joined by others, and they were getting closer. England watched from in front of the hall as a gang of motorbikes turned off the road and started towards the car park.

He stiffened, then shook his head. _I__'__m_ _the_ _United_ _bloody_ _Kingdom!_ _They_ _can__'__t_ _scare_ _me! _He tried to watch in self-assured indifference as the bikes got closer. _There__'__s_ _only,__what,_ _twenty_ _of_ _them?_ _That__'__s..._ _actually_ _quite_ _a_ _lot._ _Oh_ _crap,_ _I_ _think_ _they_ _can_ _see_ _me! _And, before he could remind himself who he was, he had dived into a nearby bush. He sat there, thorns scratching his suit, hugging his knees and peering out through the leaves as the bikers began to do whatever bikers do. _Probably_ _having_ _a_ _meeting_ _or_ _something._ _I_ _wonder_ _if_ _I_ _should_ _curse_ _them..._

* * *

><p>"He's probably just stuck in traffic or something," suggested Wales.<p>

"At this time of night?" Northern Ireland glanced at his watch. "It's nine o'clock. No-one takes this long to drive home."

They were sitting in the living room with the central heating turned right up, but Ireland was still stubbornly wearing his scarf. Everyone else had set off their fireworks already and bonfires were already burning all over the country, but theirs still sat cold and dark in the middle of the garden, the Guy Fawkes effigy staring blankly at them as though wondering why they didn't just get on with it. It had been hours since Scotland's phone had stopped ringing and they were starting to get worried.

"We should just light it withoot him," said Scotland. "It's gonna be too cold if we leave it any longer."

"We can't have Bonfire Night without England. That'd just be cruel."

"What if he's really hurt himself or something? What if he got into a car crash?" Wales was looking worried now, staring up at the clock as though he hoped it the hands would spin faster. "What if he's been kidnapped and held to ransom by political rivals? What if-"

"He's fine," sighed Scotland. "I dinnae ken what's takin' him so long, though."

"What if he's hopelessly lost? What if he's driven off a cliff? What if South's curse was real?"

"Oh, nae ye too. The only one who believes in that stupid fake curse is... oh."

One by one, the realisation hit them, and they all stared at each other in horror.

"Ye dinnae think..."

"Is he still..."

"Oh dear."

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><p>They reached the meeting hall half an hour later, after getting lost, entirely failing to read the map and breaking the Sat-Nav after Scotland got frustrated with it not being able to detect a satellite signal. When they finally got there, they had to wait as what looked like an entire biker gang turned out of the car park in front of them. They parked and climbed out of the car, shivering in the freezing November night air, scanning the darkness for England.<p>

"I cannae see him!"

"Do you think he went home after all?"

"What if he got killed by those bikers?"

"A-are you real?"

They jumped and spun around. A voice had just come from one of the bushes at the side of the car park. An English voice. As they squinted through the darkness, they saw England leaning out from the branches, leaves in his hair and scratches all over his suit, his eyes wide and haunted.

"England!" Wales ran towards him and engulfed his brother in a hug. England went stiff, waiting without complaint until he was released. "We're real! We came to pick you up! I thought you were dead!"

"Why are ye in a bush?" asked Scotland.

"I got sc- I mean, about a hundred Hell's Angels came into the car park and I was going to fight them off but then I realised that they all had guns. Really big machine guns. And swords. So I decided it would take too long and hid instead so I wouldn't have to trouble myself with getting rid of them."

Ireland sighed. "Where's your car?"

"It got towed. But _you_!" he turned towards Scotland with murder in his eyes. "Why didn't you come and pick me up earlier? I told you the Republic of Ireland cursed me! It's revenge for making her grovel, I just know it! Don't you have any concern for my safety?"

"She didn't curse you," sighed Ireland.

"How do you know?"

"Our magic is similar," he admitted. "We can sense each other's spells, you know that. There isn't a trace of a curse on you."

England gaped at him. "N-no curse?"

"No curse."

He stared around with wide, disbelieving eyes, taking in the dark, cold night, the tears in his expensive suit, the fact that he was sitting in a bush in a car park on Bonfire Night. "Oh, she is going _down_!" he snarled, tearing twigs out of his hair. "How dare she? I helped her escape Seven Minutes in Heaven with America and this is how she repays me? By... not cursing me?"

"Point to Sooth," observed Scotland. "One-all."

"Don't worry about that tonight," said Wales, helping England out of the bush. "We still haven't lit the bonfire or set the fireworks off. We were waiting for you."

"Really?"

"Really. Let's go home and murder Guy Fawkes again. You'll feel better."

And he did. The celebrations in the United Kingdom raged into the night, with bonfires burning all over the country and fireworks patterning the country's skies, as people paraded through the streets and sang, laughed, made far more noise than was strictly necessary and forgot everything that troubled them. As diplomatic as he pretended to be, England would have his revenge, and the cycle would begin again just as it always did. But for tonight, as millions of fireworks lit the sky and millions of Guy Fawkes scarecrows burned at the stake, it didn't matter.

If just for one night, everything was perfect.

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><p><strong>AN: Reviews feed the wordcount monster! And the fatter my wordcount gets, the more UK fics I'll have time to write. ^_^**

**EDIT: Thank you to TheBadlyNamedUser for pointing out that Guy Fawkes was hung, drawn and quartered, not burned at the stake. But that would be a whole lot harder to act out with a scarecrow (not least because no-one can agree what hanging, drawing and quartering really entails) and bonfires are much more fun.**


	15. There'll Always Be an England

**A/N: ASDFLSAFHSJA SORRY! Schoolwork, life and a wide variety of computer and Internet issues all conspired to stop me from posting this, but I have prevailed in the end! Seriously, I'm really sorry for the long gap. Won't happen again! *salute***

**So, because a certain someone has been bugging me to write this (you know who you are), and because I'm obsessed with World War Two, I wrote this. Hope you like it! Leave a review to let me know what you think. Also, if you'd like to request a certain one-shot (inspiration can only go so far) then please either put it in your review or send me a private message!**

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><p>It was 1941 and England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland were leaving Westminster after a meeting of Churchill's security cabinet.<p>

"Do you think it'll work?" asked Wales, pulling his coat around himself as the cold wind whipped his hair into his eyes. "The troop manoeuvres in Africa, I mean."

"It should." England was staring directly ahead and speaking to himself more than to his brothers. "It should. I don't see why it wouldn't... but Rommel's bested us before, hasn't he?"

"We'll just have to wait and see," sighed Northern Ireland.

"Oh yes, I meant to ask you." England had dragged his eyes off the pavement now and turned them to Ireland. "Have you cracked down on your security yet? If we can't bring the Republic of Ireland into the war, we can at least stop Germany's spies getting into the UK through your border."

"I've put them on high alert. Everyone's being thoroughly checked out before they're allowed through."

"Good. That's good."

A light snow had begun to drift down from the inky black sky, speckling the streets and landing softly on their coats. Wales shivered and stuck his hands further into his pockets. The sooner they got home the better. He could almost taste the hot tea – he would've preferred hot chocolate, but cocoa was rationed these days – and a steaming dinner, then a warm, comfortable bed to look forward to. In his long life on the cold, rainy British Isles, he had found that any weather was bearable if you had those three essentials.

And that was precisely when the loud, moaning wail of the air raid siren began to echo across the streets of London.

This was usually when they would sigh, gather essentials and hurry through the trap door in the garden to the shelter, ready to last the night listening to the radio and playing 'I Spy'. There isn't a lot to spy in an air raid shelter, so they mostly just sat in silence and listened resignedly to the bombs going off outside. Sometimes they took bets on whether the house would still be standing when they came out again. It had been terrifying at the beginning, but now it was just routine.

This, however, was not routine. They weren't sitting at home with a bomb shelter thirty seconds away. They were in the middle of London, they had nothing with them but the coats on their backs and they were beginning to realise why so few people dared to come outside this late.

"Where dae we go?" asked Scotland, trying his best to keep the fear out of his voice. "Dae they have communal shelters in London? They must dae. Damn it, why didnae they leave it until Germany actually gets here ter take the bloody street signs doon?"

"Don't panic," said England, which was either very brave or very stupid considering where they were. "We need to get to the tube. It's underground, and people use the stations as shelters all the time. This way."

They hurried down the street, the sirens blaring in their ears. They hardly needed England; the Londoners that were out at this hour all knew where to go. Strangely enough, they didn't look as terrified as they should considering that very soon bombs would be raining down around their ears. They were worried, vaguely upset that they'd been caught out, but there was definitely more annoyance than fear. After all, Wales realised, they were Londoners. If they got scared to death every time they heard that siren then there wouldn't be any of them left.

Very soon but not as soon as Wales would've felt entirely comfortable with, England was leading them down a wide staircase. He wasn't sure what station it was – he wasn't as familiar with London as his brother and all the signs had been taken down to inconvenience any invading Germans – but it was underground and, most importantly, it was safer than the streets. The staircase opened up onto a tunnel which led to a train station, and Wales gaped at it in disbelief.

There were hundreds of people all camped out on the platform, blankets and pillows and bags of belongings all brought with them. Some were sitting down and arranging their things – latecomers, like the four of them – but some looked completely comfortable, as though they'd taken to sleeping there on a regular basis. Perhaps they had. There were people sleeping on blankets, couples huddled together, families grouped around storybooks, children playing while their parents called to them to stay away from the rails. One person even had a tiny gas stove cooking dinner.

They crossed the station, stepping over blankets and belongings and apologising as they went, and found a free space against the wall in between a freckled man and a woman wearing pink. There they sat, huddled together to try and fight off the cold, their eyes flicking towards England. He was staring at the railway with his fists clenched, steeling himself and waiting for the inevitable.

They didn't hear the first bomb drop, but they knew exactly when it hit. England doubled over, shaking with convulsions as though he was having some sort of seizure. He'd barely had time to gasp for breath before the second one hit and he gritted his teeth to stop himself crying out in pain. Wales wrapped his arms around his brother's shoulders and pulled him sideways, cradling his head and making soothing noises. Northern Ireland was squeezing his hand tightly, although for whose comfort it was difficult to tell, and Scotland was holding him still as spasms racked his body.

Around them, people still chatted and casually went about their business. None of them had any way of knowing that the air raid had already begun. That was, until an explosion hit so near to them they felt the station shake. Everyone went very quiet and England shuddered violently, his mouth opening and closing in silent screams. His face and hair were drenched in sweat and blood was beginning to stain the front of his coat. The bandages from last night were soaked all over again as new cuts began to open, but the first aid supplies were at home. All they could do was wait this out, silent and alone, huddled on the station, until it was safe to leave.

Someone nudged Wales on the shoulder. "Hey, is he okay?"

He looked up; the freckled man who had been sitting next to them was looking at England with concern written all over his face. He wasn't the only one. The bleeding, convulsing nation wasn't exactly inconspicuous. Wales winced; the last thing they needed now was awkward questions. "He's fine," he said, just another explosion went off outside and England's violent spasm of pain left a streak of blood down the front of Wales's shirt. "Fine, really. He just... gets like this sometimes. Health issues. He'll be okay again in a little while."

"Are you sure?" asked the pink-clad woman next to Scotland. "My husband's had heart problems all his life and he's never been this bad. Have you had him checked out?"

"Aye," said Scotland. "Dinnae worry aboot it, they told us he's fine. An arrogant scunner, but a fine one."

The man, whom Wales's mind had now labelled Freckles, was looking understandably dubious. "If you say so," he said. "But please, take this." He pushed a thick woollen blanket towards them. "Go on, I've got another one. Being cold isn't going to help him a bit."

Wales hesitated, then thanked him and took the blanket. He, Scotland and Ireland managed to hold England still for long enough to wrap it around him. From then on, although his mind probably wasn't coherent enough to notice it, the convulsions were no longer laced with shivers.

Freckles seemed to have started a trend. As much as they tried to hide him and deflect questions, most of the station seemed to be taking an interest in them. A man in a black beret gave them a tin of corned beef and some bread – "For when he wakes up, the poor lad." – and a family with Essex accents leant them a tiny portable heater. A woman with braided hair claimed to be a nurse and, without even asking, began to change England's bandages. A family with a portable radio brought it over to the rapidly growing group of people around them and turned the volume up, broadcasting the news of the Blitz for them all to hear.

Everyone knew that he wasn't really fine. Wales could see it in their eyes, the disbelieving nods they gave when he insisted that it was nothing. They couldn't possibly guess the real cause of the damage, but they didn't ask. Of course they didn't. They were English, and prying would be rude. But that didn't stop them trying to help. The man with the oil cooker shared his dinner with them despite their protests. A little girl no older than five wandered away from her family, a small, patched and roughly sewn teddy bear in her arms. She knelt down by England, placed the bear in his arms and kissed him on the nose. "I get nightmares sometimes too," she said, a note of childish sympathy in her Cockney accent. "Arthur-bear makes them better. You can borrow him if you like."

England didn't open his eyes – Wales wasn't even sure if he knew where he was any more – but when the next explosion sounded outside he squeezed the bear to his chest so hard Wales was worried that the stitching might break. But Arthur was stronger than he looked, it seemed.

There were no less than fifty people gathered around now, offering gifts, words of encouragement or just the knowledge that someone cared about his wellbeing. They had no idea who he was – they couldn't possibly – but that didn't seem to matter to them. As Freckles put it later on, when the gift-giving had stopped and everyone was just sitting with them, holding England's hand and whispering comforting words as he endured yet another night of the Blitz, "We've got to look out for each other, don't we? We're all of us in this together."

The loud Trans-Atlantic voice suddenly stopped speaking to them from the radio and, before they could wonder what was happening, the opening strains of a familiar song began to echo around the crowded station.

"_I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen_

_I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen_

_May this fair dear land we love so well_

_In dignity and freedom dwell_

_Though worlds may change and go awry_

_While there is still one voice to cry,"_

The talking died down as everyone's attention turned to the radio. The noise from the bombs began to die away; perhaps to move to another part of the city, perhaps to finish for the night. Wales didn't know whether it was the familiar song or the lack of bombs that did it, but England's shuddering began to stop. His whole body went limp, his chest heaving, Arthur-bear still clutched tightly in his arms.

"_There'll always be an England_

_Where there's a country lane_

_Wherever there's a cottage small_

_Beside a field of grain_

_There'll always be an England_

_While there's a busy street_

_Wherever there's a turning wheel_

_A million marching feet."_

They stayed on that station for the rest of the night. The bombers hadn't left, as Wales had hoped they had; the brief lull was followed by more convulsions and more blood, but the entire station leapt into action with more blankets and soothing words. The man with the stove used it to make cups of tea for all three of them and the nurse even produced some painkillers for England. They seemed to work, too – although the explosions still shook the city, the shudders and spasms were considerably dulled.

"_Red, white and blue, what does it mean to you?_

_Surely you're proud, shout it aloud,_

_Britons awake!_

_The Empire too, we can depend on you,_

_Freedom remains, these are the chains_

_Nothing can break!"_

When the bombs finally did stop, England was in no fit state to leave the station. He barely had time to open his bloodshot eyes and blearily take in the platform before he was fast asleep, exhausted by yet another night of relentless explosions. Perhaps it was better that way. This raid had been worse than the others and Wales wasn't quite sure it would be good for him to see what was probably waiting for them back on street level. One by one, everyone began to pack their things away and leave, giving England a last encouragement or squeezing his hand one last time before they disappeared back to the surface to see what state their houses were in. Freckles insisted they keep his blanket and the little girl declared that he looked like he needed Arthur-bear more than she did. It was a good thing she didn't want him back – Wales didn't think it would be possible to extricate the teddy bear from England's arms. Once they were sure he was deeply asleep, Scotland wrapped the blanket around him like a cocoon and hoisted him up over his shoulder. And, with a wave goodbye to their new friends on the station, they started back up the stairs to London.

"_There'll always be an England,_

_And England shall be free,_

_If England means as much to you_

_As England means to me."_


	16. Team Building

**I came up with the idea for this after seeing a poster at my local laser games arcade advertising 'team building opportunities'. But I scrapped the lasers because they just weren't messy enough. ^_^ It ended up a longer than the others so it might seem a little rushed in places, so sorry about that.**

**In other news, there's a British Isles interview up on my profile page if anyone wants to read it.**

**Note: _'cachi' _is pronounced 'ka-throatynoise-i.' It's Welsh for... well, guess.**

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><p><em>This<em>, thought Wales, _was a really bad idea. _He struggled to his feet, his clothes covered in mud, and staggered towards the nearest cover. He could feel a pain in his side – had he been hit? No time to check now; he could hear gunshots going off from both sides and he had enough experience of battlefields to know that staying in one place too long never ended well. He reached the cover and dropped down, panting hard, covered in scrapes and bruises. Then, dreading what he might find there, he touched a hand to his side and held it up. It was dripping with red. "Oh, _cachi_."

This day had all started so well. He'd had high hopes for it. It was an ambitious plan, maybe, but he'd had faith that it would solve all their problems. How had it gone so wrong so fast?

It had all begun the previous day.

"Come on, England," Wales sighed, tugging on his brother's elbow and causing him to draw a big squiggly line all down his paperwork. "Just apologise to Scotland."

"Why should I apologise to him? It wasn't my fault."

"I know, but if you just be the bigger person then you can start talking to each other again!"

England threw the form into the rubbish bin and began to fill out a new one, not even looking at Wales. "Not talking to him is fine by me. Maybe I'll finally get some peace and quiet."

It had been the same with Scotland. "Nae," he'd said, leaning on the remote and turning the telly's volume up so high Wales could almost feel the floor vibrate. "I amnae apologisin' ter that scunner. He's the one that started all o' this."

"But you did tear up his _Peter Pan _book."

"Only 'cause he said Robert Burns was a talentless git!"

"I thought you didn't read poetry!" He was shouting now, trying to make himself heard over the battle sequence blaring out of the speakers.

"I dunnae! I just dunnae think he should be talkin' that way aboot one o' my best writers!"

"You told Ireland that C.S. Lewis was a schizophrenic idiot with a mental age of six and a half."

"He asked for it! He was-"

"_FREEEEEEDDDOOOMMM!" _bellowed the television, drowning out Scotland's accusation. By the time the cheering had died down, his attention was back on the screen and Wales knew that the conversation was over.

He had stormed out of the room and stomped down the corridor to the kitchen. A cup of tea and some sort of chocolate biscuit was what was needed here. Something to calm him down and clear his head. He'd had it with their pointless bickering. It seemed like every second day someone was shouting or teasing or refusing to talk to someone else. They'd been together for centuries now and they still couldn't get along. It was ridiculous, immature, not to mention annoying, and Wales was sick of it.

That was when he passed the front door and his eye was drawn to a colourful flyer lying just under the letterbox. An advertisement for something. Someone must've been going around all the houses and dropping them off. He stopped, picked it up and read it carefully, front to back, title, enthusiastic bullet points complete with plenty of unnecessary exclamation marks, even the small print, and a wide smile spread across his face. _Perfect._

The next day, the United Kingdom found themselves standing on a damp pavement, staring up at a grey concrete building so dull it had turned to spray-paint to make itself look interesting.

"I still think this is a stupid idea," said Northern Ireland, crossing his arms and glowering at Wales.

"I agree with him," said England. "Why are we even here, anyway?"

"Because you agreed to come! Remember the leaflet I showed you? This is a _team-building activity_. Perfect for businesses, corporations, groups and functions. Maybe you'll all finally stop bickering with each other! Besides, I already booked us in. They're expecting us."

"I don't bicker. I merely bring up reasonable concerns. It's you lot who overreact."

"Oh, stop yer whinin'. It willnae be so bad. It might actually be fun."

"See?" Wales turned and beamed at Scotland. "He thinks I'm right."

"He also thinks haggis is the height of culinary sophistication," muttered England.

"Just give it a go," sighed Wales. "Trust me, okay? I promise it'll all turn out fine."

And so, grabbing England's and Ireland's hands and leaving Scotland to follow along behind as he was the only one who could be trusted not to do a runner, Wales dragged them both off the pavement and into the building. He barely had time to register the shabby-looking front desk and the guns and body armour hanging off the wall before a sarcastic voice chirped, "Top of the mornin' to ya, lads!"

Wales winced. He hadn't been expecting her to ambush them like that. England, Scotland and Northern Ireland spun around very fast to see the Republic of Ireland sitting in one of the chairs by the door, one hand raised in lazy greeting.

"You invited _her_!" England hissed, apparently under the impression that she couldn't hear him. "Why would you do that?"

"If anyone needs to learn to stop arguing, it's you two," said Wales steadfastly, folding his arms and standing his ground. "I thought I'd make this a whole British Isles thing."

"It's the Northwest European Archipelago!" protested South.

"Oh, don't start," sighed England. "You're the only one that ever calls it that!"

"Just because you-"

"Are you here for the Team-Building Deluxe Package?" A receptionist appeared from a door behind the desk and gave them such a wide smile it made even Wales's face hurt.

"Yes," said Wales, marching up to the desk. "We have a booking."

"And what name would that be under, sir?"

"Kirkland."

"Kirkland?" South raised an eyebrow. "My name isn't Kirkland. I changed it decades ago."

"It used to- um, it's your maiden name," hissed England.

"Eleven o'clock booking under the name of Kirkland, here it is," trilled the receptionist, completely ignoring the fact that South looked no older than nineteen. "Only five, then? If you'll just follow me..."

Fifteen minutes later, all five of them had been suited up and briefed. They were all dressed in camouflage gear and held guns that were surprisingly similar to the real thing, except much messier and much less deadly. They had listened as the rules were listed and silently vowed to break every single one of them if it meant getting one up on someone else. The object of the game, they were told, was a simple one: capture the flag. Each team would have to protect their own while going after the flag of the opposing team and bringing it back to their base. If they were shot, they were out.

"I'm on England's team," said Northern Ireland quickly, dodging South's outstretched hand and ducking behind his brother.

"Fine then," she said, shrugging. "I'll be with Scotland."

"You be with us, Wales," said England.

"But it doesn't divide evenly..."

"Oh, dunnae worry aboot that," Scotland grinned. "We dunnae need anyone else."

And so, after only a short pause to decide on team names, Game One was underway.

The Royal Paintball Corps crouched in their bunker, Wales peering out of the window while England and Northern Ireland discussed strategy. Well, 'bunker' was a big word – it was more of a small hut with sideways slits for window, two doors at the sides and a flag stuck in the dirt right in the middle. But it protected them and gave them a good vantage point to survey the field, so it was alright by them.

"We should flank them," said England, grabbing a stick from the ground and using it to draw a diagram in the mud. "Wales can be a decoy while you and I sneak around the side. There's only two of them – even if one stays behind we'll still get them. Then we just take the flag and leg it."

"What?" Wales spun to face them. "Why do I always have to be the decoy? You be the decoy for once."

"I'm the military mastermind! Military masterminds never have to be decoys."

Northern Ireland grabbed the stick off England and made some amendments to the diagram. "How about Wales stays behind and guards the flag? If we all leave at once then it's defenceless."

"Good point..." mused England.

"I don't want to guard the flag! That's boring!"

"Alright then, how about an all-out frontal assault? Charge their bunker, shoot them both, take the flag. Boom boom boom, done."

"But that leaves no-one to take care of the flag," pointed out England.

"We won't need to if we distract them both, will we? We could-"

The door banged open, making them all jump. Scotland was standing in the doorway with his gun raised. Before they could do so much as shout in surprise, he shot them all one by one, turned and ran from the bunker, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

England gaped. "What the hell was-"

"You snooze you lose!"

Their heads snapped to the side of the bunker. South was waving at them, and in her hand was their now-paint-splattered flag.

Game One concluded with one point to the Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom, nil to the Royal Paintball Corps.

"That actually really hurts," moaned Wales, rubbing his shoulder. The paint was cleaned away for the start of Game Two, but the bruise was still there. "I didn't realise it would hurt that much. I'm not sure I like paintball."

"Who was it that signed us up for it?" asked England, crossing his arms and glaring at Wales.

"I'm sorry. It was a bad idea. Can we go home now please?"

"We've paid for it now, haven't we?"

"I would actually quite like to go home as well," said Northern Ireland quietly. He was very pale and his hands shook slightly as he grasped his gun like a security blanket. It had taken a few minutes to calm him down after South had shot him, and now he was crouched in a corner with haunted eyes that made Wales regret bringing him along.

Paintball, it was agreed in the bunker of the Royal Paintball Corps, was the worst game in the world.

"Paintball," said South, keeping a lookout by the window of the Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom bunker, "is the best game in the world."

"Agreed," laughed Scotland. "I havenae had this much fun since Bannockburn!"

"Did you see the looks on their faces when we ambushed them? Priceless. I wish this place let you bring cameras; I'd never have to watch TV again."

"And that diagram! They were plannin' soo hard they forgot ter fight."

"Maybe we should make this a regular thing? Form a league team or something?"

"I amnae gettin' on a team with those idiots."

"Good point," mused South. "We'd have to find people that could actually play."

"We can worry aboot that later. Fer noo, let's just focus on shootin' them as many times as we can in the time we have left."

South grinned. "You read my mind."

Over the next ten minutes, the Royal Paintball Corps and the Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom met each other on the field of battle in a war more intense than any fought with armies or actual bullets. Wales crouched behind a cover with Northern Ireland, whose face was so grim with determination it was actually frightening. More to get away from him than anything else, he ducked out into open fire and shot at Scotland, who was leaning out from behind his cover. He missed and was forced to hurl himself to the ground to avoid an answering paintball. A triumphant laugh and a splatter from next to him told him that Northern Ireland was out of the game. Watching from behind his cover, he saw England charge South's position and receive a paintball to the chest.

_It's just me now._

Wales peered around to see Scotland and South gaining on him, both with their guns raised. He clutched his gun to his chest. He was a small nation, it was true, and never the most powerful, but he was tough. He had fought for his place in the world, carved out his identity as a warrior, and he was not going to give up now. His brothers were out of action and now it was up to him to defend his honour, his country and his people. They thought they could defeat the proud nation of Cymru? They had another thing coming.

Wales hurled himself out to meet them, pumping the trigger as hard and fast as he could, promptly slipped in a puddle and landed face-first in the mud.

And that was how he ended up crouched back behind his cover with red paint dripping from his hand, his monthly swear-quota one word closer to being all used up. "You hit me," he called out, standing up. "I'm out."

Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom: two, Royal Paintball Corps: nil.

"What's the point?" sighed North, sitting huddled in the corner of their bunker at the start of the third game. "We'll never win. I just want to go home."

"It still hurts where they shot me." Wales rubbed his side with one hand and his shoulder with the other and pulled a face. "You'd think those paintballs were made of lead."

"Not to be a downer or anything," said England sarcastically, "but I think it's about to rain."

"Oh, _brilliant_."

"Come on, guys!" Wales jumped to his feet and glared around at them all. "We need to stop sitting here and whingeing or Scotland and South are going to ambush us again. We outnumber them! If we cooperate and work together, we can win this round!"

"Wales has a point," said North.

Five minutes later, their aches, pains and discomforts had been set aside and millennia of experience with war had been put into practice in coming up with a detailed battle plan. They would launch a flanking attack on the enemy bunker and neutralise their position. Wales, the fastest, would grab the flag and run while the other two covered him. They had back-up plans for every eventuality and solutions for any problems that could possibly come up. It was simple but effective and achieved unanimous agreement.

They left their bunker slowly, guns raised, checking thoroughly for enemy presence to threaten their flag while they were away. "Clear," said England, and they advanced towards the other side of the pitch. They moved quietly, hiding behind cover to make sure South and Scotland were nowhere to be seen, and, with a nod at each other, split up into the agreed formation. England would enter first from the left, then North from the right, then at their signal Wales would come in and take the flag. They concentrated on their plan as they approached the bunker; if everyone stuck to it, this would be perfect.

It became clear as soon as they reached the bunker, however, that something was wrong.

"There's no-one in there," said England, squinting through the slitted window. "Where are they? We didn't plan for this."

"They're in there," said North. "They're just hiding. Waiting to ambush us, probably."

"We have one up on them already," Wales pointed out. "They weren't out in the field so they must be here, and we can be ready for them when we go inside."

"Good point. Even so... I'll go first. I'll call when I see them and you come in, okay North?"

He gripped his gun, his face set in a way that made Wales wonder just how far removed from actual conflict this situation was for him. "Okay."

While they Wales and Northern Ireland hid behind a nearby cover, England carefully approached the door of the bunker. There was no sound from inside. He lifted his gun, his finger on the trigger, and pushed it open.

There was definitely no-one inside. No-one under the window slit, no-one in the corners, no-one anywhere. The flag was sitting completely undefended in the centre of the room.

Except, of course, for the person who had been standing right behind the door. As England advanced forward, South caught him from behind, swept his legs out from under him and raised her gun to his face. "How's it going, England?"

"What the-" he scrambled back quickly, trying to get away from the black hole only a foot away from his nose, and hit the wall. "South! I mean, Republic of Ireland! Where were- how did- what are you doing? Don't shoot me in the face!"

"Really? You don't want me to?" She looked at her gun, then at him, mock puzzlement on her face. "Because, you see, I'm not really sure you have a choice in the matter."

"But it hurts when you shoot people from across the field! It'll be really painful from this close!"

"Oh, you should've told me," she deadpanned. "Clearly I am absolutely repulsed by the thought of inflicting pain on you, England."

England panicked, the words tumbling over themselves in an effort to get out of his mouth. "But it'll get all in my eyes and my mouth and up my nose! How do you know it's not poisonous? You'll probably do some serious damage or something! Please don't shoot me in the face!"

She regarded him for a moment with barely-suppressed glee. "Grovel."

He stared.

"I said grovel! Go on!"

"Is this some sort of petty revenge for Halloween? Because I-"

"Of course this is petty revenge for Halloween, what did you think it was? Now grovel or I shoot!"

England considered his options. He could tell his arch-nemesis how wonderful she was and get off scot-free, or he could refuse and end up with a face-full of paint but keep a shred of his national pride. He stared up at the barrel of the gun and swallowed.

"Please don't shoot me, great and proud Free State Eire."

"Keep going."

"I have wronged you in the past, but you have bounced back from hardship with resilience most nations can only dream of. You are strong in battle and have a rich, beautiful culture – even that dance where they kick their legs around a lot – and I should count myself lucky to have a sister as beautiful and brilliant as you."

She smiled at him. "That's so sweet of you!"

A thought occurred to England. "Where's Scotland?"

"Oh, he's just outside chasing Wales and Northern Ireland away. He's probably shot them by now. Which reminds me," she lowered her gun to his chest, stood back a few paces and pulled the trigger. "Best I can do."

England looked down at the green paint dripping from his chest and nodded. "Fair enough."

Royal Paintball Corps: nil. Dragon Ninja Attack Squad of Doom: three.

Game over.

"Come on, cheer oop!" Scotland grinned, as they all made their way back to the building. "Stop being such dooners! That was fun!"

"You shot me in the ear," hissed Northern Ireland. "That hurt. And it still hasn't stopped ringing, you know. You've probably ruined my hearing for life."

"Oh, it'll be fine. Stop whingein'."

"Now I have three bruises," said Wales, crossing his arms and glowering at Scotland.

"At least you aren't permanently disabled."

"At least you two didn't have to grovel to the Republic of Ireland."

"But ye have ter admit, she has style," said Scotland, almost admiringly. "England one, South tw-"

"Yes, yes, I know. You don't have to keep score. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"No-one's. Dinnae mind me, I'm just a spectator." There was a long, hate-filled silence, in which Scotland looked around at everyone in confusion, searching for a single spark of joy. "Am I really the only one who had fun?"

"I think South had fun," said Northern Ireland, jerking his thumb in the direction of his twin. She was walking a few paces apart from the other four, still smiling broadly.

"Ye ken why that was? Because we _won_! Ye never even shot us _once_! It's like Bannockburn all over again, isnae it, England?"

"This is nothing like Bannockburn," he hissed.

"Yes it is, because I _won! _Because I _beat you_! Because you're a _loser_- ah!"

At some point during Scotland's wild, gloating gestures, his finger must've worked its way onto the trigger of his gun. And, as he squeezed the gun for a better grip, he pulled it. A bright pink paintball soared across the field in a graceful arc and, before anyone could do anything but gape, hit South in the face.

She stopped. She wiped the paint from her eyes, revealing fire and hatred that would burn a snowman alive. She directed those eyes at Scotland.

"I'm sorry! I didnae mean ter-"

He was unceremoniously interrupted by a yellow paintball to the mouth.

"OI!" he roared, hefting his gun. "YE ASKED FOR THIS!"

A few minutes later, after Scotland and South were forcibly separated and dragged kicking and screaming back to the building by the paintball staff, England, Wales and Northern Ireland watched as their siblings were cleaned up. It was no small task; there was barely an inch between them that wasn't covered in rainbow paint.

"Supposed ter be teammates..." grumbled Scotland, trying to wipe paint from his face with a tissue while South, sitting as far away from them as possible, separated strands of paint-encrusted hair. "Didnae even give me a chance ter..." He looked up suddenly and glowered at Wales. "This is your fault."

"What? What did I-"

"He's right," said Northern Ireland. "You signed us up for this."

"We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you," England agreed.

"I thought it would be team-building! I thought it'd make you like each other!"

"Well ye did a fine job o' that, didnae ye?"

"Why couldn't you have signed us up for something nice? Why did you ever think paint would be a good idea?"

"And I probably won't hear properly for weeks," added North. "But that's Scotland's fault."

"And I won't get my dignity back _ever, _courtesy of the Republic of Ireland."

"I still think this is all Wales's fault..."

The United Kingdom didn't speak to each other on the drive home, except for the occasional muttered "This is all your fault...". Even Wales, after being blamed by everyone for trying to make them friends, gave up on them all and just glared around from a corner in an uncanny impression of Northern Ireland. But, even though it appeared so, the day was not a complete failure; Wales learned something that day that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

If you ever find yourself living in a house full of stubborn, pig-headed Brits who won't stop fighting with each other, it is not a good idea to arm them with paint.


	17. Christmas Tree

**I planned to post this on Christmas Day. In case you hadn't noticed, it's late. I'm sorry. What can I say, it was Christmas. So if you'll close your eyes for a moment, I am going to use my magical time-warping powers - didn't I tell you about them? Well, now you know - to transport you back to December 25th for the duration of this chapter. You're welcome.**

* * *

><p>"Scotland, those presents are <em>not <em>wrapped," said Northern Ireland, crossing his arms and glaring accusingly at his brother.

"What dae ye mean?" Scotland, who was in the process of placing what looked like piles of scrunched paper underneath the Christmas tree, looked indignant. "Of course they're wrapped! I used Sellotape this time and everythin'!"

"When I said 'use Sellotape', I didn't mean for you to wrap it around the presents like string," he sighed. "First you ignore everything I say about the tree-"

"But organisin' the decorations isnae fun!" sighed Scotland. "You always try ter colour-coordinate the tree and it just isnae the same."

"Give it a rest, guys." England's presents, while not as immaculate as Ireland's, were acceptably wrapped and therefore approved to go under the tree. "It's Christmas Eve."

"I know, but that doesn't mean we can-"

"England!" Wales came running in from the kitchen as fast and as terrified as if someone had just told him Scotland would be cooking Christmas dinner. "Scotland! Ireland!"

"What? What's the matter?" asked Ireland, the presents and the tree forgotten.

"You know that tree in the garden? The one with the robin's nest in it?"

"Yeah..."

"It fell out! I was just by the window and I saw it on the grass!"

"Oh," said England, relaxing again. "That's a shame."

"We have to do something! We have to help it!"

"There's nothing we can do," he said. "It's not like we can put it back in the tree or anything."

"Why not?" demanded Wales, staring around at the other two for support and receiving none.

"Because it probably wouldn't want it any more even if we did. It'd smell like us, wouldn't it? It can build a new nest. Besides, it's cold out there."

"We have to try, though! We can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"Well, that's what I'm plannin' on doing," shrugged Scotland. "England's ri- England isnae wrong, Wales."

"Fine! Fine, if that's how you feel then I'll just have to do it myself, won't I?" He glared around as though disgusted with them, spun on his heel and stomped back down the corridor.

"Don't worry about him," said England. "He'll get cold and come back inside. You know what he's like."

* * *

><p>It didn't occur to them until they'd finished putting the presents under the tree, had one last mug of eggnog each and were about to go to bed that they noticed something rather alarming; Wales was still nowhere to be seen.<p>

"Ye dinnae suppose he's still outside, dae ye?" asked Scotland, staring concernedly at the remnants of his eggnog as though they'd just done something worrying.

"He might just've gone to bed early," Ireland pointed out. "He did say he was tired earlier."

"Even so... I'll go and check." England put his mug in the sink, found a coat and pulled it on. "You guys stay where it's warm. I'll be back in a second."

He stuck his feet into his wellies, pushed open the door and headed out into the garden. He was instantly glad he'd brought the coat; the air was absolutely freezing and there was a light dusting of frost over the grass. _At least it's not raining. _It was so dark he was tempted to go back for a torch, but then a voice shouted weakly, "Is someone there?"

"Wales?" he called, staring around for his brother.

"England! I'm up here!"

A branch rustled in something other than the wind; England's eyes were drawn up to the top of one of the biggest trees in their garden. "Oh my God. Wales, what the _hell _are you doing up there?"

"I was trying to put the robin's nest back but I got stuck and now I'm really cold and I can't get down!"

England sighed. "Just hang in there, I'm coming to get you!" Cursing the entirety of nature itself under his breath, he grabbed one of the lower branches and hauled himself up into the tree.

* * *

><p>"Right," said Scotland, draining the last of his eggnog and dropping the mug into the sink. "I'm going ter bed. Coming?"<p>

"In a minute. I'll just wait for England and Wales to come back in."

"Suit yerself," shrugged Scotland, and disappeared off up the stairs. Ireland leant back against the counter, finished his own eggnog and glanced at his watch. They should be back any minute now.

But they weren't. Ten minutes later, there was still no sign of them. Ireland weighed his choices: he could stay inside where it was warm, go to bed and pretend he'd never known anything was amiss, or he could brave the cold, wet night and get himself tangled up in whatever had gone wrong out there. He sighed, found his coat on a peg by the door and ventured out into the garden.

However, they didn't appear to be there. "Wales? England? Where are you?"

"Ireland, is that you?" That was definitely Wales's voice, but he couldn't see where it was coming from.

"It's me! Are you out here?"

"No, we've left a voice recording specifically to trick you. Of course we're out here, you numpty!" He didn't need the English accent to identify that voice. "We're stuck in this damn tree!"

A rustle of branches brought his eyes to the top of the big tree at the end of the garden. "You have got to be kidding me."

"We aren't kidding you! I just wanted to put the nest back but now I'm stuck and I can't move without falling!" Wales sounded almost desperate now; perhaps that was what made him sigh and say, "Fine. Wait there, I'm coming."

"No! Don't come up! This tree is cursed or something!"

"Don't look at me, why would I curse our tree? The branches are just really far apart near the top, that's all."

"Even so, go and get a ladder or something. Don't risk it!"

"Alright, fine," said Ireland. "Wait there. I'm getting a ladder."

He trudged over to the garden shed and pulled open the door, shrugging off the shower of spiders. Through the haze of cobwebs, he spotted an old ladder leaning against the wall next to a broken Space Invaders arcade game and a rack of old longbows. He dragged it out into the garden, pulled it across the grass and propped it up against the tree.

"Is it okay?" he called, squinting through the leaves to see if it was secure. It wouldn't be much fun to get halfway up and find out that the branch it was leaning against wasn't strong enough to support his weight.

"It's fine," shouted Wales.

"Right, I'm coming up!" With one last suspicious look at the tree – and, now it occurred to him, the grass, just to make sure it wasn't too slippery – he planted a wellie-clad foot on the first rung and started up the ladder.

It really was quite high up, and somehow it looked higher when he was looking down than it had done when he was on the ground looking up. England had been right; the higher he climbed, the further apart the branches seemed to get, until he was amazed that Wales had been able to scramble up that high. Ireland wasn't sure if he himself would be able to, and he was a few inches taller than his brother.

By the time he reached the top, his fingers were numb and he was beginning to wish he'd brought gloves. He scrambled off the ladder and onto the branch next to England. Squinting through the darkness, he could see Wales clinging to the end of the branch not six feet away.

"Don't come!" squeaked Wales, before he could move to help him. "The branch isn't strong enough! Whenever anyone else comes down this end it starts creaking and if it breaks we'll all die!"

"We won't die, Wales," sighed Ireland. _Why didn't I stay inside? _"Just wrap your legs around the branch and lean backwards. England and I can pull you back."

"But I'll fall off if I let go!"

"No you won't. We'll catch you. Just do it really slowly."

Wales took an audibly deep breath, tightened his legs around the branch and, as though expecting himself to detonate at any moment, lifted his hands. And, inch by inch, began to lean backwards towards his brothers. The second he was within reach, England and Ireland grabbed his hands and pulled him back along the branch towards them. In slightly less than a minute, he was safe.

"Why were you that far out anyway?" asked England. "And why wouldn't you let me get you? I could've had you back here well before Ireland got here."

"Because the nest wouldn't stay here and there's a fork at the end of the branch that's perfect for it," said Wales, his voice shaking only slightly. "And I was scared you'd make us both fall."

"_I'd_ make us both fall? Who was it that came up here in the first place?"

"Stop bickering. We just need to go back down the- oh."

"What?" asked Wales, suddenly even more scared than before. "What's wrong?"

Ireland pointed wordlessly to the grass barely visible between the branches. Lying on the lawn was an old, cobweb-covered ladder.

England swore loudly. "_Now_ what are we supposed to do?"

"Get Scotland," said Wales, gripping the branch with white-knuckled fingers. "He's just inside, isn't he?"

"He went up to bed," said Ireland.

England swore again. "You reckon we'll wake him up if we shout loudly enough?"

"No need. His window's right there." Ireland pointed out along the opposite branch; it came within two feet of the house, its outermost leaves brushing a tartan-curtained window.

"Right, who's heading out along that deathtrap, then?" asked England. He turned to Ireland, then to Wales, then Ireland, then back to Wales again. "What are you looking at me for?"

"You're closest," said Ireland. "Off you go."

"If I die, you lot are going to have to go to world meetings," said England through gritted teeth, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "And they're not as fun as you might think they are." He was hugging the trunk now, easing himself gingerly to the other side of the tree. "And you'll have to do all the accounts for the entire United Kingdom." He moved slowly along the branch, wincing every time it creaked. "And they're a right pain in the- got it!"

Reaching out as carefully as he could, painfully aware of the long drop directly underneath him, he knocked on Scotland's window. No response. He knocked again. Just as he was preparing to knock a third time, the curtains flew back and Scotland's somewhat surprised face appeared behind the glass.

"Scotland! Open the window!" England mimed pushing up a window, just in case the glass was blocking any sound he was making.

Getting the hint, Scotland pushed it open and leant out. "What the hell are ye doin' oop there?"

"Wales and Ireland are here too. We're stuck. We need to get back inside through your-ah!" Arms flailing, England overbalanced and tipped backwards. The branch swung dangerously as he caught it on his way down, hanging with his legs flailing a scarily long way from the ground and his arms wrapped around the branch so tightly he could've snapped it right there and then. He swore for a third time, and this one was even louder and more enthusiastic than the other two.

"Hold on!" Scotland clambered up onto his windowsill and reached a hand down. "Grab my hand! Christ, that's a long way ter fall."

"Thank you... for your _comforting _words..." England's teeth were gritted so hard he could barely speak as he tried to take hold of Scotland's hand, but there were a good two feet between them.

Ignoring the shouts of Northern Ireland and Wales, Scotland swung his legs over the windowsill and lowered himself onto the branch. Clinging to it as hard as he could and trying his best not to notice the way it was bending under their weight, he grasped England's forearm and hauled him back over the branch.

England, white-faced and shaking but unhurt, inspected the tear in his jumper and sighed. "I've had this since nineteen fifty-three."

"Time ter get a new one, then," said Scotland. "It's probably a sign from the god of clothes or somethin'."

"Scotland!" Wales shouted through the branches. "It's freezing out here! Let's go back in now and talk about England's jumper later, shall we?"

"Right ye are!" With much scrambling and struggling, Scotland managed to turn around on the branch and ease himself back out towards the window. "Damn, it's fallen doon."

"Does that mean we're stuck out here?" asked Wales, suddenly terrified again.

"Of course it doesnae. I just need ter open it again."

"It does," said Northern Ireland. "It's locked itself behind him."

"It doesnae dae that," said Scotland, struggling to open the window without falling off the branch.

"It will tonight. I bet you ten quid it will."

Five minutes later, Scotland, England, Wales and Northern Ireland were huddled together like tree-dwelling penguins for warmth and Ireland was five pounds richer.

"This is yer fault, Wales," hissed Scotland. "Christmas bloody Eve and we're stuck up a tree catchin' pneumonia."

"I only wanted to put the robin's nest back!"

"I told you not to," said England. "Didn't I tell him not to?"

"You did tell him not to."

"Hoo many Christmas Eves have we lived through?" mused Scotland. "Hundreds? Are we countin' the Pagan celebrations too? Thousands. This one is the worst yet."

"I'm sorry, okay? I never thought we'd end up here!"

England sighed deeply and rubbed his temples. The other three could almost physically feel the 'I-need-a-cup-of-tea' waves emanating from him; they exchanged worried looks but, until he began to display signs of neurosis, schizophrenia, paranoia and/or unprovoked violence, there was nothing they could do. "Why don't we just shut up for once and try and get some sleep? It might be uncomfortable but we've got to make the most of it. We'll figure out how to get down from here in the morning."

* * *

><p>It was one of the most awkward, painful, cold nights of their lives, and that was saying something. They had spent many nights outside when they were children, but they had become used to warm beds in the last few centuries and hard, damp branches ranked fairly low on the list of preferred sleeping arrangements. The freezing December weather bit at their faces and numbed their fingers – around one in the morning, Wales was shivering so hard Scotland took off his jumper and gave it to him. They did manage to sleep – only a few hours each, but it was better than nothing. Even so, all four of them were well awake when the sun first began to peer over the horizon, announcing the arrival of Christmas morning.<p>

"Seven o'clock," said England, checking his watch. "If we weren't stuck here, we'd probably be opening presents by now."

"I'm sick of this tree," groaned Scotland. "I dinnae want ter miss Christmas over somethin' like this!"

"Why don't we do the gift-giving here?" suggested Wales.

Scotland sighed. "We cannae dae that, Wales, because in case ye havnae noticed, _we're stuck up a tree with nae presents ter give_."

"I know, I know, but we can pretend, can't we?" He beamed around at their bemused faces. "Okay, I'll go first. Scotland, I got you a present!"

"Um..." Scotland proceeded carefully, not entirely sure where this was going. "What did ye get me, Wales?"

"I got you... panpipes!"

Scotland raised an eyebrow. "Panpipes?"

"They're really cool. They're like a bunch of pipes all tied together. I heard that they were much more fun to play than bagpipes, so I thought you'd like to give them a try. You might find that you like them more," he added cautiously.

Scotland took a moment to conjure the image up in his head. He liked what he saw. "So... they're like bagpipes without the bag?"

"Sort of, yeah. But much better. You should definitely start playing them instead of bagpipes."

Scotland considered this. He was going to have to reserve judgement on the whole better-than-bagpipes thing, but they did sound like fun. "Thanks!" he grinned.

"Your go, Scotland. What did you get me?"

"I got ye a Sponsor-a-Sheep package. There's this sanctuary fer mistreated farm animals in Aberdeenshire, see, and they're goin' ter send ye an update once a month on hoo yer sheep's doin'. Her name's Maisy."

Wales gaped at him. "Really? Thank you so much!"

"My turn," said England. "Ireland. You know how you never got to go on the Titanic?"

"Yeah..." he said slowly, not sure where England was going with this. He had built the ship – not personally, of course, but he'd been there at the construction site – but hadn't been available to go on its maiden voyage. He'd been disappointed, but resigned himself to getting a ticket on one of its later journeys. That, of course, had never happened.

"Well, I was going through some of the old records at the Museum of London, and I found an actual ticket for it. It's only second class and it's a bit aged, but I thought you'd like to have it. I know it's not the same as actually going, but I-"

"A real ticket? An actual, authentic one? Seriously?"

"Yeah," said England, his confidence boosted by the look of disbelief and amazement on his brother's face.

"Thank you! That's... I just... thank you!"

"Don't mention it."

And so they continued, describing the presents they'd bought for each other and the gifts that had come through the post from other countries. Wales went on at length about the new guitar he'd got for England, how he'd spent hours in music shops comparing Gibsons and Stratocasters and a million other variations and specifics until he'd finally settled on what he confidently declared the best guitar in the history of the universe. England had bought Scotland a collector's edition of _Braveheart_, complete with a poster and William Wallace action figure. It was almost as exciting as sitting by the Christmas tree and tearing off the wrapping paper for real, and they barely noticed the cold and the damp as the sun made its way slowly up over the horizon. They didn't have real presents. They didn't have a real Christmas tree. They didn't even have central heating. But they had each other, and that, as it turned out, was what made all the difference.

At least, until they finished 'unwrapping' presents and remembered that they were stuck up a tree with no obvious prospects of getting down anywhere in the near future.

"One of us should jump," suggested England. "They can go and get help. Scotland, you're toughest."

"What? I amnae goin' ter-"

"Would you prefer we stay up here until we starve to death?"

"I am actually quite hungry," said Wales.

"Me too," added Ireland.

"We're all hungry, but we aren't going to get any food until we get down from here. Are we definitely sure there's no way in through that window?"

"I'm tellin' yer, it's locked."

"Can't we break in? Smash the glass or something?"

"That's my bedroom! You arenae smashin'-"

"Guys, shh!" Wales waved his arms to shut them up and almost fell out of the tree. "I can hear something!"

They all froze, listening with all their might. Aside from the birdsong and rustling leaves, there was... nothing. England was about to speak again when a voice drifted up to the top branches of their tree.

"Hello? Are you guys here or what?"

Ireland reacted in a nanosecond. "SOUTH! SOUTH, WE'RE UP HERE! HELP!"

"Oh God..." groaned England. "We are never going to live this down."

"Never ever," agreed Scotland, shaking his head sadly.

But it was too late. The Republic of Ireland was at the base of the tree now, staring up at them. Even England had to admit that he was glad to see her. She was wearing a Christmas-themed jumper so huge, hideous and brightly-coloured it could only have been a gift from America, but despite the blinding colours and actual sewn-on Rudolph nose, they were so chilled they were seriously jealous of it. She gaped at them for a full ten seconds, then threw her head back and laughed so hard she was in serious danger of asphyxiating before she could get around to saving them. "What the hell are you doing up there?"

"Wales got stuck," shouted Northern Ireland. "We tried to help him, but we got stuck too!"

"How long have you been up there?"

"All night."

Her eyebrows almost shot off the top of her head. "Holy crap! Bet you fifty Euros you've all got colds by this evening."

"Not a chance!" called England. "Now help us down from here, would you? If you open Scotland's bedroom window we should be able to get back inside."

"Sure. It's not like I had anything better to do today."

"Wait, the door's locked. You can't-"

"Oh, please. Just because you like to pretend you're a perfect English gentleman doesn't mean I have to."

They watched as she disappeared back down the garden and, within moments, was sliding Scotland's window up with a grin that clearly read 'you owe me one, guys.'

One by one, they managed to scramble out across the branch and clamber over the windowsill. It wasn't particularly dignified, but after a long, cold night stuck up a tree none of them honestly cared much about dignity any more. The whole, wide world of warm jumpers and showers and central heating was open to them once more and they had never been more grateful to have solid ground under their feet. Northern Ireland, forgetting himself completely, actually hugged his sister in overwhelming gratitude and even England shook her hand.

"Sou- I mean, Republic of Ireland," he began.

"Oh for God's sake, England, you're my brother. Call me South. I'm beginning to regret giving myself such a long name anyway. I would've gone with 'Eire' – much nicer – but that's sort of me and North together, so it didn't feel right to hog it."

"Okay then... South," said England, looking a little awkward. The fact that he still called her South almost exclusively in his head changed nothing – he had sworn to be diplomatic about the whole situation and calling her by her chosen name seemed only polite. "Why are you here?"

She bit her lip, looked around at the other three, then said reluctantly, "I was lonely. I don't like spending Christmas day by myself. Besides, I needed to give you these." She held out a carrier bag; brightly coloured wrapping paper was just visible through the plastic. "Merry Christmas."

It was fair to say that Christmas day was not nearly as eventful as Christmas night, but perhaps that was for the best. The five of them sat around the tree and opened the presents they knew they were getting along with a great deal of surprises from other countries. It was actually a pretty good haul that year, but, as they realised, perhaps at the same time, perhaps one by one, as they sat around a table full of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, boiled vegetables and cranberry sauce that evening, that was neither here nor there. They didn't voice it, of course – the only things voiced were jokes, stories and long-forgotten happy memories – but they all knew. They could've come down from that tree to find their stockings full of coal, but the fact that they were all together, all friends, meant more than any present ever could.

Except, perhaps, the William Wallace action figure.

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><p><strong>Come on, it's Christmas. Forgive me my family fluff. And yes, I'm as ashamed of the title of this chapter as you are. I just couldn't resist.<strong>


	18. Troubling Times

**This chapter probably needs more of an introduction than the others. The venerable IrishGleeFanatic made a request for a one-shot about the Troubles, so that's what this is. A one-shot about the Troubles in Northern Ireland. For those unaware of what the Troubles are, I'll give you a quick explanation. As you might remember from way back in Stormclouds Over Ireland, when the Republic of Ireland declared her independence from the UK, Northern Ireland decided not to go with her. But the Republic of Ireland wanted a unified Eire and what was basically a guerilla war erupted. The UK supplied troops to defend it and everything went to hell. It all just became shootouts and bombings around Belfast and Derry/Londonderry and eventually various places in England. It all stopped officially in 1998 and the IRA is pretty much nonfunctional now, but splinter groups still cause trouble occasionally.**

**Needless to say, 'divisive' is an understatement. While the majority of Northern Ireland still votes to stay in the UK, the ratio of UK-supporters to Ireland-supporters fluctuates quite a bit.**

**The reason I was hesitant to write a Troubles-themed one-shot for a while was because I didn't want to upset anyone. **Personally, I have no opinion on the issue as long as it remains peaceful and any major changes are made with the agreement of the majority of Northern Irish voters. I'll tell you guys what I've told countless people before: English does not necessarily equal imperialist.** I've tried my best to be as neutral as possible and I hope you guys are all okay with it. Both sides of the conflict had justified causes and both did some very regrettable things in the names of those causes, so that's what I've tried to portray here.******

******Anyway, I'll stop stalling now. It's a bit short, but actually longer than the first chapter. In fact, now that I look at it, they've been getting progressively longer as I go along. Weird... Anyway, hope you like it!******

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><p>In the household of the United Kingdom, the dining table was usually a forum of heated debate. Almost every night, they would sit down with their Indian takeaways or their fish and chips or, occasionally, a home-cooked meal, and talk. Sometimes they would discuss recent events, reminisce about shared memories or even gossip mercilessly about other nations, but more often than not the conversation would descend quickly into argument. England would argue with Scotland, Wales would argue with Northern Ireland, and sometimes they'd switch partners and argue with each other. Occasionally three would gang up against one, or four would gang up against no-one in particular and shout until they realised that they were doing nothing more than vehemently agreeing with each other. They had found virtually every topic ever dreamt up to argue about and had tried and tested all possible different ways of going about it.<p>

But the fact was – although none of them would admit it – they enjoyed it. Dinner table conversations involving nothing but quaintly making small talk bored them to tears and the fact that they could be as mean as they liked to each other and still be guaranteed forgiveness in the morning was just an added bonus. As much as they complained of headaches and being sick of all the bloody shouting, the truth was that they really wouldn't have it any other way.

Which was why, as they sat around the table with a full roast, mashed potato and vegetables, the silence was so out of place.

It had been like this for a while now. All that could be heard was the sounds of cutlery on china and slow chewing as they each picked their way through their food, their appetites curbed by the uncomfortable atmosphere.

"This... is nice, Ireland," said Scotland, his voice more than a little strained. "Did ye... did ye make this all yerself?"

It was a stupid question and they all knew it. If anything was to be cooked in this house it was always Ireland's job to do it. He was the only one that could be left unsupervised around hot cookers and sharp knives and come back with something both devoid of leeks and sheep's guts and non-lethal. The question was just an attempt to break the silence, to kick-start the conversation this room so desperately lacked.

"Yeah," he said, and that put an end to that.

It was not, thought Ireland, that he didn't want to talk. He was fine. He just had other things to be getting on with and preferred to finish his meal as quickly as possible. That was it. Other things far more important than this.

Like cleaning up the aftermath of today's events, for example. _Today's events._ Those 'events' had left him with a black eye and more cuts and bruises than he liked to admit. He could sense their thoughts on him, almost feel the effort they were going to not to look at him. He stared into his dinner, trying to hide his injuries from view. No-one had commented, of course – concerned looks and a hug from Wales was all he got and all he wanted. He was lucky to have escaped a bullet wound this time. Being a country, they didn't kill him, but they were awfully painful to remove and uncomfortable for months afterwards. They were worse even than shrapnel. But he was fine. _All in a day's work, after all. Best I can do is put up with it and not make a fuss._

"Wales?" The younger nation almost dropped his fork in surprise at the noise. "Could... you pass me the gravy, please?"

Wales nodded and handed it over. Ireland poured it over his plate; the liquid was the same colour as his hair. His hair, and the girl's hair.

The girl. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to push the memories away, but they swam back into his mind as clear as ever. _The girl._ He'd seen her on the side of the road in the middle of the chaos, crouched amongst the wreckage strewn from the remains of a bombed-out car. She had been wearing one of their uniforms and cradling a gun in her arms. The black mask she wore obscured her face, but he would've sworn to whoever would listen to him that she was crying. Not just crying, but hanging her head and sobbing until her eyes burst as guns chattered nearby and bullets buried themselves in houses and pinged off cars. The shoulder-length brown hair visible under her mask was the same colour as his. Exactly the same colour.

Someone opened fire nearby; Ireland had operated on instincts now superbly well developed, hurling himself behind the corner of a building as bullets whizzed past him. Whether they were loyalist or nationalist or aiming for him or the girl he never found out, and a small part of him wondered if it even mattered. But after a few moments of deafening noise, the bullets stopped. Ireland leant out from around the building, his eyes going straight to the wreckage of the car, half-expecting to see the brunette girl lying riddled with bullets. But, although he scanned the street without a thought for any stray bullets, she had disappeared.

Across the table, a trickle of blood began to run from England's nose. He swore under his breath and wiped it on his napkin. "Sorry. I thought I'd already... It's probably just aftermath. Nothing to worry about."

England tipped his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting for the blood to stop. _Bloody hell. It can't be another... no. I'd have felt it._ He tucked the napkin into his sleeve – it wouldn't be polite to leave a blood-soaked tissue on the table now, would it? – and, ignoring the way his brothers were trying their best to look as though they weren't staring at him, picked up his knife and fork again as though nothing had happened.

It had been a pub this time, in Birmingham. They hadn't given any warning, no time to consider demands or evacuate innocents. No-one had claimed responsibility but he knew who it was. Since he'd maintained his refusal to give them Northern Ireland, they'd taken the bombings to his country in an attempt to change his mind. _It's not going to work,_ he thought, attacking a piece of meat a little more violently than was necessary. _Germany did worse than they could ever hope to and I survived that, didn't I? They're wasting their time._

He looked across the table at Wales and Scotland; they quickly dropped their eyes, pretending they hadn't been staring at him, trying to gauge how serious the damage was. To tell the truth, he felt almost sorry for them. The house had been so tense recently, it couldn't have been pleasant for them. And there was that unspoken rule, the one that said that no matter how many injuries Northern Ireland comes home with, no matter how stressed England looks, there were to be no questions asked. Wales and Scotland couldn't know what it was like, of course - South liked them, and that meant the world these days. She liked Northern Ireland a bit too much, and him... well, the bombs said all they needed to about how much she liked him.

It would be so easy to just hand Northern Ireland over. To say here, here's your brother, take him and leave us alone. But he couldn't. Northern Ireland had chosen to stay and it was his duty to protect him. He might not have been the best at showing affection, but he loved all of his siblings and the idea of losing yet another one made him feel sick. Besides, if he gave him up now then this would not be the glorious battle for freedom he knew South had been aiming for. That battle had ended the day he'd accepted her independence and let her go. It would just be a brutal war, a series of terrorist attacks, and a small, scared, battered nation abandoned by his own brother. If he let South win this, she would be as bad as he used to be. And he couldn't let her sink that low.

The clinking of china and the scraping of cutlery echoed through the silent dining room.

Wales swallowed a mouthful of mashed potato, bit his lip, then seemed to make his mind up to speak. "Are... are you okay?"

Northern Ireland looked up from his plate. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Me too," said England. "Why do you ask?"

For a moment, Wales looked as though he was going to say something else. He teetered precariously on the edge of speech, but then his courage seemed to drain away and he stared back down at the table. "No reason."

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><p>Back in the subdued, frightened city of Belfast, a girl with gravy-coloured hair looked at all the bullets and the bodies and the debris littering the streets through the tear-soaked eyeholes of her mask. She made a move to pull it off, then hesitated and dropped her hand. <em>No. The mask stays.<em> She struggled to her feet, doing her best to support herself on shaking knees, and surveyed the street. Her people – her friends, her brothers, her children, however you wanted to put it – caught sight of her and waved her over, calling something about leaving. _Yes. Leave. That's the best thing to do. We should... get out of here._ She stepped over the body of a man – a loyalist? Or just someone caught in the crossfire? – and picked her way over to them.

_It's necessary._ That was the phrase she lived by these days; she repeated it over and over to herself while she helped plan attacks, looked at the ruined aftermath or woke up shaking and sweating from increasingly frequent nightmares. It was killing her inside, but it was necessary. England didn't care about her brother any more than he had cared about her. He was only holding onto him to soothe the pride she'd hurt by declaring her own independence. But he was holding tight, and it was up to her to shake her brother loose. North would thank her later, even if she had to drag him kicking and screaming from the ruins of his own country. Blowing up his city, shooting his people... it felt so terribly wrong it made her sick, but it was the only way to save him from himself.

They would be back. That much she was certain of. They would be back again and again, day after day, until her brother was back where she knew he should be.

No matter what it took.

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><p><strong>Please leave a review if you liked it. But I do have something to ask you guys: please try not to post any offensive comments about your views on this subject. There are people with some extremely conflicting opinions out there and I'd rather keep the reviews section as light-hearted as the rest of this story. Let's keep the political debate where it belongs, okay? ^_^<strong>


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